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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28318518">Every Line Lost</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks'>NineMagicks</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Bad Acting, Baz is in despair, Christmas, Films, Kissing, M/M, Mulled wine, Prague, Simon is an artist, Strangers to Lovers, Winter, dodgy Christmas films</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:35:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,805</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28318518</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The scene is set: Prague in December as winter drapes itself over the city, casting everything in shades of grey and white. Baz Pitch thinks he knows exactly what the immediate future holds — a mediocre day of broken scenes and forgotten lines, followed by a night alone in a lumpy hotel bed. After that? Nothing. But when he walks away from a film set with a stranger's paintings in hand, he doesn't realise what he's about to (quite literally) stumble into. He <i>might</i> find that there's more around the next corner than just another blank page...and he might find words waiting for him, to replace those he lost.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>147</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Secret Snowflake 2020, Snowbaz Around The World</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. In the square</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/gettingby/gifts">gettingby</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a fic about Christmas films of questionable quality, the best parts of winter, and watercolour cityscapes. It's a gift for gettingby, as part of the Discord server's snowflake exchange. Your prompt mentioned silly holiday movies and a cracky Christmas AU, and whilst this might not quite meet the criteria, it's where my tired brain went. I hope you like it! Thank you caitybug for beta reading.</p><p>Here begins a love letter to Prague. &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <b>BAZ</b>
</p><p>
  <em> [Insert line here.] </em>
</p><p>I stare down at the script in my hands, disbelieving. That’s what it actually says — that’s what a professional in their field has deemed worthy of occupying space on the page. <em>[Insert line here.] </em></p><p>On any other set with any other film company, I’d think it a mistake — a grievous oversight, perhaps, but not one necessarily made in malice. (It’s right there in my contract, after all — <em> Baz Pitch doth not improvise.</em>)</p><p>But I’m <em> not </em> on any other film set. I’m on this one. And I know, I <em> know </em> that this is a move born of outright neglect. Of bad writing and worse intentions.</p><p>This is the work of Gareth de Gates. He of broken promises and garish belt buckles.</p><p>I should have expected it from the moment the unbound script arrived on my agent’s desk. <em> The Amazing Christmas Adventure in Prague — </em> no good could ever come of such a title.</p><p>A school friend of yesteryear Mr de Gates may have been, but “good old Gaz” long since grew into a tyrannical director with an inflated sense of self-worth. It was clear from the start that he intended to make this a mockery of cinema — of all the avenues my career has taken me down, rather than the gloried red carpets envisioned in my youth, they’ve brought me here. (If I sound bitter, it’s because I am.) (I’ve never in my life resorted to a <em> seasonal family offering. </em>Watch me as I wither amidst the dregs of my pride.)</p><p>To Prague, to the set of a Christmas B-film. (The B is for Boring. Bloody barbaric. Blatantly <em> Bad</em>.)</p><p>To the remnants of my ambition, drowning in the Vltava.</p><p>Here I stand on Charles Bridge as the sun begins to set, undone by Gareth de Gates and his lacklustre writing. Anyone else would strive to rise above it — enjoy the view, the city, their surroundings.</p><p>Instead I stew whilst he sits in his tattered and frayed director’s chair with a smirk about his lips, calling for me to continue with the latest interminable scene. (At least he’s no longer screaming at me through a megaphone. One of the assistants confiscated it last week, and he hasn’t managed to find it yet.)</p><p>“Come on, Pitch. I’m paying you to be here. You’ve had a free fortnight in a luxury hotel, out of my own back pocket. I’m paying you to <em> care.” </em></p><p>(Pay me more.) <em>[Insert incentive here.]</em></p><p>(And...luxury hotel? He must be drunk.)</p><p>The cameras are rolling. I’m supposed to be a professional.</p><p>
  <em> I’ve no idea which scene we’re even on! They’re all the bloody same. </em>
</p><p>Lately it seems I’m a professional disaster, at best.</p><p>“Say something!” Gareth crows, waving a hand to indicate the extras should shuffle back whence they came. One invades my personal space to snatch away the script, muttering under his breath about <em> soap opera has-beens. </em></p><p>I could lash out, throw a Hollywood strop. But the extra’s right, is he not?</p><p>Baz Pitch <em> is </em> a has-been, a no-more, a once-was. This was the first successful audition I’d had all year; I was in no position to be picky. My agent despairs of me.</p><p>After this film, I don’t know what I’ll do. There are no further offers in my inbox.</p><p>(Well, there’s that celebrity edition of Crazy Cool Celebrity Karaoke, but I <em> refuse</em>.)</p><p><em>The scene. </em>Return to yourself, Basilton, and find focus. I rewind to the beginning for what feels like the thousandth time. It’s supposed to be an atmospheric shot for the ages, I imagine — me, windswept and winter-worn, dressed like a depressed Topman model, alone on a bridge torn right from How to Gothify Your City Design 101. I’m looking down at three sheets of paper clasped in my hand, muttering missives most morose.</p><p>Despite appearances, it’s hardly high art we’re making here in Prague. I’m surprised Gareth managed to obtain the required permits. (That’s presuming he let the authorities know at all.)<em> The Unfortunate Christmas Misstep</em>, as I’ve been thinking of it, is at best half a step above those mushy, pointless Christmas films that repeat <em> ad infinitum </em> on BBC 2. You know the sort — those found most often in the wasteland of days between Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve.</p><p>Still, despite my low expectations, I at least expected to be provided a complete draft of the script. It seems only fair.</p><p>“What do you want from me?” I snap. (It’s not lost on me that Gareth de Gates, he of such bad maths that he’s now used as a cautionary tale in school textbooks, is currently wholly responsible for my salary.) (And yet, my mouth opens and the disrespect <em> flies</em>.) “I’m not a common street performer, Gates. I’m an <em> actor</em>, an artist! I need quality material.”</p><p>He looks at me as though<em> I’m </em> the problem, then gestures to the pages in my hand. “It’s <em> de </em> Gates, ta very much, Pitch — and we were supposed to get this scene done in a single take. Where’s your head at, mate?”</p><p>
  <em> Good question. </em>
</p><p>I look away. <em> Anywhere but here. Is no one going to tell him there’s a corn flake stuck in his pathetic excuse for a beard? </em></p><p>The bridge has been blocked off at either end for a measly few hours of shooting, and there are tourists gathering at a wooden barrier, curious and increasingly impatient. <em> They’re not thrilled with what they see, either. </em></p><p>What’s more, the weather’s ready to revolt — the clouds above are heavy with grey, snow waiting to fall. Gareth informed me, on the day we flew to Prague — economy, with my legs folded up under my chin — that using Real Natural Snow in shots would save the need to digitally add it in later. (Knowing him, via a dogged sense of realism that only Microsoft Paint could provide.)</p><p>
  <em> Nah, Baz, look at it this way — the cold’ll keep ya off yer balls and on yer toes! A real winter wonderland, don’t you think? </em>
</p><p>Off my balls. I’ve still no clue what he meant by that. I hardly think my genitals are any of <em> his </em>concern.</p><p>Still, I daresay it’s not completely rotten, being trapped on this cold sore of a film set. Prague in December is a begrudging delight — ice-kissed and ethereal, a trace of snow touching upon spires and red-tile rooftops. Yesterday’s flurry has been trampled flat by footprints that criss-cross the endless streets and cobbled alleyways. It’s going to be a dream when the sky unfurls in earnest.</p><p>It’s wasted on me, such finery.</p><p>This film, <em> The Regrettable Careerstmas Misadventure, </em> is going straight to DVD. (There’s been no official announcement, but that’s the assumption.) Such a vision came to me in my dreams — my face was badly photoshopped onto a mock-up of Charles Bridge, my once sought-after likeness turned bargain bin stocking fillers for those who like their seasonal viewing vapid, intensely heterosexual, and lacking any sort of coherent plot. (<em>Don’t </em> get me started on the plot.) (Gareth is the director, writer, producer and executive producer of this most wondrous creation.) (Also, <em> destroyer of worlds.</em>)</p><p><em> Let’s get this over with, </em> I tell myself<em>. The sooner this scene meets its unsatisfactory end, the sooner I can be back in my dreary hotel room, forgetting I signed my life away to Gareth de Gates and his directorial funeral. </em></p><p>He ought to be grateful I’m here. Never mind that my career was completing its graceful downward spiral when the offer landed in my agent’s inbox. (Honestly, one flop vampire film and you’re as good as done in this business.) (It’ll come back to bite you again, and again, and again.) This is most certainly <em> me </em> doing an old friend a favour. Providing a name of some renown for his poster.</p><p>I sigh, staring at watercolour paintings. They’re lovely; the nicest thing about this entire bloody production. They’re of different locations around the city, sights I’m yet to see — words inked in a careless hand tell of destinations unmet. <em> Old Town Square, Petřín Lookout Tower, Charles Bridge. </em> History captured in delicate swirls of colour.</p><p>“Beautiful,” I murmur, tracing my thumb over each page. “That much I’ll admit.”</p><p>There’s a moment of quiet with the river rushing beneath my feet, where I’m almost free. Then Gareth ruins everything by shouting cut — I hadn’t realised we’d begun filming — and I’m being ushered towards a makeshift changing room, where I’ll exchange my flimsy jacket for a real winter coat and hat. (And not a moment too soon. My ears feel ready to drop off.)</p><p>“Nice one, Pitch!” Gareth calls, flipping through papers on a clipboard. (No doubt as blank as his brain.) “Nice reflective improv. Should go down a treat.”</p><p>I frown and step behind the curtain, relieved to be given a reprieve. I almost collide with my co-star, the <em> romantic lead</em>, who’s tapping at her phone with something far less than enthusiasm.</p><p>“Wellbelove. Aren’t you done for the night?”</p><p>She looks up with a bored approximation of a grimace. Her brown eyes narrow. “Not quite. Apparently they need a retake of me walking along the bridge before you arrive. Gareth said I didn’t look wistful enough.” Her nose wrinkles. “I’ll give him <em> wistful. </em>It’ll be a take so plaintive he cries himself to sleep tonight.”</p><p>Wellbelove comes from the same acting school as I — Watford, boards all the greats once trod — and she’s far too good to be here. (If asked, however, she readily admits she has no ambition.) She would be perfect in mildly successful indie productions; ones that crop up on Tumblr moodboards, but otherwise go unappreciated.</p><p>The most significant credit to her name is a two-year side character stint on <em> Coronation Street. </em> She got to practice various <em> beautiful crying </em> techniques and enjoyed a grisly off-screen death. She insists those were the best days of her life.</p><p>“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You’re as miserable as they come.”</p><p>“Thank you, darling,” she says indulgently, slipping her phone into a pocket. “Gareth doesn’t agree. It sounds as though he’s in a better mood, at least — thanks, Basil.”</p><p>She squeezes my arm, then notices the watercolours in my hand and asks why I’m still holding them. (I hadn’t realised I was.)</p><p>“I like them,” I hear myself say. <em> They’re a way for me to escape. </em> “Don’t you?”</p><p>She purses her lips, stepping past me to move beyond the curtain. She flicks her hair over her shoulder — long and golden, straightened to within an inch of its life. “I suppose so? They’re by a local artist, apparently — Gareth said he potentially had a Welsh accent, and thus felt more confident haggling in English.”</p><p>“Oh,” I say, looking down at the watercolour bridge. It really is rather good. <em> What’s someone from Wales doing here, painting the scenery? </em></p><p>I’m stuck with the sudden realisation that<em> I’m </em>here, every inch of Winchester, adrift in this beautiful city and seeing none of it. Reading stilted lines aloud for a pittance, but no sort of pride. Making artless art whilst telling myself it’s in pursuit of something.</p><p>I feel an urge I’ve felt before — to flee, to run.</p><p>
  <em> Before, there was always a next place to run to. A new character, a different guise to hide behind. Now there’s nothing. After this...I’m no one. </em>
</p><p>I swallow the sudden surge of panic.</p><p>“Well, I’d best get this over with,” she sighs, adjusting her scarf. “Before the tourists swarm the barrier and reclaim Charles Bridge.”</p><p>“We’ve certainly outstayed our welcome.”</p><p>Wellbelove smiles at me — sweetly I’d say, if I didn’t know better. “See you back at the hotel. I moved rooms, by the way — too many strange noises coming from the bathroom.”</p><p>“I stand by my earlier assessment. The bloody place is haunted.”</p><p>She agrees wholeheartedly, and I wish her luck with her contemplative strolling. We both agree to a read-through of our lines tomorrow morning; our ongoing homework project is to drum up a modicum of chemistry. (We have none. It’s like watching a wedge of Red Leicester seek harmony with a cheese grater.)</p><p>Her costume shimmers, designed to duel with city lights for everyone’s attention. Assistants stop what they’re doing to watch her shine, and I take the opportunity to slip though the other end of the curtain into relative anonymity. I pull my hood up to hide my best feature — my hair, darling of many a shampoo advertisement — and slide across the stones.</p><p>At home in England, I might be recognised. Occasionally. (<em>Very </em> occasionally.) There are a handful of individuals who still recall my guest stint on <em> Holby City </em> with a certain measure of fondness.</p><p>Here in Prague, with night threatening to fall, I’m no one. There was a time I would have minded, but I’ve grown increasingly despondent with my career in recent years.</p><p>Part of me thinks it would be nice to disappear completely.</p><p>I ignore Gareth’s bleating as I pass his chair, watercolours still clutched in my fist. It’s possible someone will miss them later — an assistant in charge of props, driven power-mad with responsibility. <em> The keeper of the paintings. </em>But I find the soft colours soothing; I’m not ready to part with them.</p><p>“Pitch!” Gareth calls. “Get back here and help me with this camera work. We need to be sure Agatha’s hitting maximum wistfulness!”</p><p>I scowl, looking up at the statues that stare down at us on either side, centuries of judgment carved into stone.</p><p>
  <em> Tell her a sad story. Narrate the tale of Baz Pitch’s fall from relevancy. That’ll get the tears flowing. </em>
</p><p>“I hardly think my presence will help,” I mutter. I walk without looking back.</p><p>The paintings. There’s a world I can slip into.</p><p>I don’t know the one responsible — Agatha mentioned an artist, though we weren’t given a name. Her character’s a painter in the film, a young woman who moved to Prague as a child and leaves a trail of watercolours throughout the city for strangers to find, hoping one day her true love will come across them.</p><p>Ridiculous, I know. The plot only grows more convoluted and cloying from there.</p><p>My character — Coriolanus Thistle, a name I have disputed heatedly, to no avail — bumps into her on numerous occasions as he travels, here in the Czech capital to start a new business venture. (Never, at any point, is it clear what this business <em> is</em>.) (With a name like that, I imagine it’s a thorny subject.)</p><p>Agatha’s character, Verity Hettingpole, walks around with a paintbrush behind her ear and no shortage of dreamy nonsense spilling from her mouth. She does a lot of lamenting and starry-eyed gazing before concluding that Thistle must be<em> it. </em> Them meeting this way means love and nothing less; him tripping and falling into her lap the first time they meet is but one of many signs they’re <em> simply meant to be. </em></p><p>What follows is an avalanche of increasingly unlikely events and slapstick scenes designed to make absolutely no one in possession of a decent sense of humour laugh. There are mythical creatures — dragons, unicorns, pixies — and dream sequences, followed by an unexplained a capella breakdown. And then it ends.</p><p>I did try to be patient at first. It’s Gareth’s screenwriting debut, and with time and input, it might have improved. But he’s wholly resistant to constructive criticism, taking any suggestion that his handpicked cast might be unhappy with their lines as a personal insult — so we read what’s on the page, and try not to think about the mockery awaiting us in the YouTube comments, when the trailer limps online.</p><p>I shake my head, annoyed with myself for letting this ridiculous film occupy a millimetre of space in my life.</p><p>Better to step inside the paintings, instead. Find the scenes that our mystery painter felt were dear enough to capture in such delicate lines and brush strokes. Shades of cerulean and sapphire...well, it’s lovely work. Charming, understated. If I saw these for sale somewhere, I’d buy them at full-price and not dare insult the one responsible by haggling.</p><p><em> Old Town Square. </em>I like this painting very much — the shape of the buildings, fairy lights dotted like constellations around a towering Christmas tree. I wonder if it really looks like that. Could I find it?</p><p>
  <em> I could try. </em>
</p><p>I become aware of someone behind me, calling my name. I stop, though the bridge is hardly a suitable place to make an obstacle of oneself. I see an assistant from the set, holding out an umbrella.</p><p>“Mr Pitch, can we drive you back to the hotel? Or least give you this?”</p><p>I tip my head back, snow falling upon me lazily, brushing my cheeks.</p><p>
  <em> No, that’s quite alright. I think I’d like to feel this. </em>
</p><p>“Thank you, but no — I’ll find my own way back.”</p><p>The assistant lingers, perplexed as I turn to blend with the crowd once again. My ambulatory knowledge of Prague is far from complete, but I feel the urge to walk. To get lost and see what finds me.</p><p>I reach the end of the bridge and hop the barrier, hurrying past harried onlookers. Then once I cross a road and slip down a side street, I’m halfway to being no one. Paintings in my hand, the first crunch of snow beneath my shoes.</p><p>I’m almost lost.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>SIMON</b>
</p><p>The snow’s coming. By tonight it’ll be white outside, everywhere you look.</p><p>I love Prague in winter.</p><p>I love it in summer, too — just can’t get enough of it, really. It’s one of those places you end up in one day, and you never want to leave. I came here for a weekend with my mates after uni ended, and it just felt right. They went off drinking and making prats of themselves, and I went everywhere else.</p><p>Things were hard at home. There was a lot of pressure to find a job, buy a house, settle down. Do what I was supposed to do. I hated that it had been decided for me — my life, and what I was meant to do with it. Why didn’t I have a say?</p><p>I was having a hard time. Questioning things, you know — my purpose, the point of it all. Nothing was making sense until I was lost in these side streets. Until I understood this had been waiting for me: the city, the stones. It’s mine for a bit. Maybe I won’t stay for forever, but it’s alright for now — it’s home after home.</p><p>After that weekend with the lads, I quit my part-time job at Argos and spent hours online in the local library, looking up excuses to return to Prague. I found a blog written by someone who’d moved here to get a certificate and help business people with English stuff during their lunch breaks — so even though my relationship with grammar is complicated at best, that’s what I did. Took all my savings and spent it on an online course. (I learnt that <em> gerund </em>is not a bloke’s first name, and modal verbs are not made of wood.) (Also, an idiom is not necessarily an insult.)</p><p>It wasn’t that hard to find work, even though there are probably a million better conversationalists(?) out there. I don’t do much, only a few hours each week, but it turns out business people <em> will </em> pay you to sit and listen, and occasionally correct them. It’s a lot less scary than I thought it would be. They tell me about their jobs, and I give them a few handy phrases to put into practice that were pulled out of a book. Half the time I don’t feel like I shouldn’t be getting paid for it.</p><p>I work just enough hours to pay for my corner of the flat I share with three teachers. You get more for your money here than you do in the UK, and I don’t exactly go mad at the weekends, so I’m alright with getting by.</p><p>My flatmates teach on Saturdays, but I like to keep the weekends free for other things. I bought an easel a few months ago, and ever since the Christmas market was set up in November, I’ve been bringing it down to the square to do my <em> other </em> job.</p><p>It’s not as glamorous as it looks, the art stuff. (<em>Does </em> it look glamorous? Probably not with all these holes in my jeans.) I had to get a trading licence, so it’s actually more official than you’d think. A cheery bloke who runs a wooden bauble stall offered me a spot out in front, and while it’s not exactly a prime location, it isn’t bad. I do get noticed.</p><p>I paint scenes of the city and sell them to strangers. It’s lovely.</p><p>It’s like free stress relief, in a way. Who knew I had something creative in me? I wish I’d bought myself a set of watercolours years ago. Every time I got stressed at work, I could’ve gone to town on a canvas. Figured things out.</p><p>It was in the first week after I moved here officially. (My Facebook timeline was a shit-show for days, probably should have told someone what I was planning.) I walked next to the Vltava river for the first time, and felt something shift inside me.</p><p>I wanted to <em> paint </em> it. I’d never painted anything in my life! Pretty fucking weird feeling, let me tell you. Well, I suppose I wanted to sketch it first. I had a pencil and a textbook on me at the time, so I started scribbling inside the back cover. Water, ripples, movement. That afternoon, I bought a cheap watercolour set from the indoor market by Václavská, and just fucking went at it. Learnt by making mistakes.</p><p>Now I paint as much as I can. The river’s my favourite thing, but I’ve been going around the city during breaks, picking out interesting buildings and street scenes. Sometimes I paint people, but I don’t find them that inspiring. It’s what’s around and beneath them that gets me thinking.</p><p>I’ve done some pretty fucking nice watercolours, and people have been buying them at the Christmas market. The bauble bloke, Jan, cuts tourists a deal if they buy something from his stall. We’ve been doing good business — he bought me a cup of mulled wine last weekend, said I deserved it. I’ll be sad when the market closes in the new year.</p><p>I’m on my way to the square now, absolutely buzzing. Something strange happened two weeks ago that also turned out to be really fucking cool — this film crew rolled in to shoot a sappy Christmas film. Some company called Belt Up Films? Never heard of them. They probably make the exact same film, over and over...handsome man meets a handsome girl, they fight, fall in love, the end...that sort of thing. Loads of film companies and musicians come to Prague. It’s got this storybook feel you can’t find everywhere else.</p><p>Anyway, a bloke from Belt Up came up to the bauble stall, calling himself the director. He’d been watching me at my easel while he was scoping out locations. He bought three of my watercolours on the spot — two hundred crowns each, I was well happy — and said he wanted to use them in his film. He started going on about paperwork, but I just said mate, do what you want. Do you know how many trdelníks I can buy with this? (Ice cream chimneys.) (Fucking <em> ace</em>.)</p><p>I suppose I’ll look it up one day. The Christmas film. (He didn’t mention the title.) Watch my shitty watercolours in action.</p><p>Watch someone fall in love because of them, even if it’s only fictional.</p><p>I set a stool in front of my easel, saying hello to Jan in my naff version of Czech. (He appreciates the effort.) I settle in and pull out my paints, wondering where they’ll take me tonight. <em> Wenceslas Square? The church that’s standing behind me </em> — <em>Our Lady Before Týn? </em></p><p>It’s a weird thought, someone finding feeling in my paintings. I’d paint even if no one bought them, but it <em> is </em> nice. An extra reason to fork out for the quality packs of paper.</p><p>I’m in love with this city, and I think it shows in the pictures.</p><p>You can look at the paintings and see me, right there on the page.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>BAZ</b>
</p><p>Old Town Square is as saccharine as the name suggests. It’s also busy — crowded with bodies and shoppers, weaving between rows of painfully festive market stalls. I’ve been to the “authentic” Christmas markets that pop up in various British cities between November and January, and this reminds me of them, only much more condensed. (And, overall, far more charming.)</p><p>For the first time today — perhaps for the first time since stepping off the plane a fortnight ago — I’m having a nice time. Usually after filming ends, I barricade myself in my hotel room and refuse to participate. Putting the day’s dismal shoots behind me, enjoying the general sense of merriment...this seems like a better option. At least for tonight.</p><p>Tourists peruse baubles and trinkets and put them down again, eating ice cream out of grilled dough. (Far too cold for that, but it seems the thing to do.) The tree towers over the scene, and I suppose the atmosphere is getting to me. (Just a little.) I amuse myself by purchasing a tiny violin decoration for my own imaginary Christmas tree, then wind further into the mayhem, jostled to and fro by those not looking where they’re going. (I’m one of them.)</p><p>I’m standing at yet another stall of quaint wooden decorations when I notice something, out of the corner of my eye. A young man sitting at an easel.</p><p>I’d walk by and think nothing of it. Just another artist in a labyrinth of living art.</p><p>But my eyes flick across his canvas as I pass, a blank page he swirls now with sapphire, and down to the crinkled papers still clutched in my hand.</p><p>Watercolours, drawn by the same brush.</p><p>I look up, and his eyes are so blue.</p><p>I collide with a man who’s staring at his phone as I stare at the artist — we knock heads, and my feet whip from under me. There are various directions in which I might tumble, but fate settles on the worst option, sending me crashing against the easel. Gravity makes short work of me as I end my disgrace in a stranger’s lap; I feel the warmth of a hand against my neck. He’s a bloody furnace.</p><p>
  <em> Well. This is certainly the more unfortunate sort of romantic plot device. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ...isn’t this exactly how Coriolanus and Verity meet? </em>
</p><p>I stare up at the artist as he stares down at me. His hair’s a mess of curls and his shirt’s patched with flecks of paint. I feel a flutter in my chest that could be nerves, but is equally likely to be mortification.</p><p><em>Oh, wonderful</em>, I think. <em>My life is now a ridiculous Christmas film.</em></p><p>Then the artist opens his mouth to say, “The bloody fuck’s your problem?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. At the market</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <b>SIMON</b>
</p>
<p>There’s a bloke in my lap. That’s not how tonight was supposed to go. (The nights <em> never </em> go like this. Last time I took someone home, it was the electrician. He needed to check my metre.) (<em>Not like that.</em>)</p>
<p>The stranger looks startled, like a deer trying to cross a motorway and having a tough time of it. Something goes flying out of his pocket, landing under my collapsed easel — I think it’s a Christmas decoration. A tiny violin. (Way too small to play.)</p>
<p>My paints are all over the place; it’ll take ages to set things right. My easel’s in two pieces, the paper I’d been starting on is wet with slush and dirt, a streak of blue down the middle....</p>
<p>Tonight’s a right fucking mess.</p>
<p>I ask the bloke a less than polite question, to which he can only splutter an apology, both of us slipping and sliding all over the place as we struggle to our feet.</p>
<p>“You’re wearing stupid shoes,” I tell him, pointing at them. (Must be a tourist. Saw a bloke wearing sandals last week.)</p>
<p><em> “Excuse </em> me?” he snarls, dusting off his coat. It’s a nice one — expensive. (Don’t like the elbow patches, though.)</p>
<p>I lift my leg so he can get a look at my feet. “You need something like this, with grippy bottoms. Then you won’t be sliding everywhere, knocking over innocent bystanders.”</p>
<p>His eyes (grey, droopy, unhappy) flick down to my scuffed off-brand trainers, then back to my face.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t be seen dead in such things. <em> Grippy bottoms </em> — can you hear yourself?”</p>
<p>“Well, you’ll be seen dead <em> without </em> them,” I reply. “Because you’ll fall over and crack your head open wearing <em> those </em> pieces of shit.”</p>
<p>It’s not the best start to a conversation with a stranger. (And to be honest, his shoes are nice. But I’ve got a point to prove.) Possibly we could both try harder...he’s looking at his shoes now, pink in his cheeks that might be embarrassment. (Or the cold.)</p>
<p>I should’ve known he was trouble when I first noticed him loitering. I never know what to do with loiterers.</p>
<p>On the one hand, it’s nice that they’re interested, you know? They stand and watch me paint, then wander off without saying anything. (They don’t <em> buy </em> anything, either.) My painting hand gets a bit shaky, but I know deep down that it’s flattering. And it <em> might </em> lead to a sale. Occasionally.</p>
<p>This situation definitely <em> hasn’t </em> led to a sale; we’re standing here, staring at each other. (He’s making me nervous.) (Great hair, though.)</p>
<p>Maybe insulting his feet wasn’t the way to go.</p>
<p>“Your shoes are shit, but that’s a lovely coat.”</p>
<p>He raises an eyebrow at me. “Are you trying to haggle? It is not for sale.”</p>
<p>That leaves me spluttering, which is unfortunate. At least he helps me set the easel right, which is more than I was expecting. I rescue his tiny violin, too — I ask him if he wants me to play it for him and he snatches it away, sneering.</p>
<p>My paper’s ruined. I’d only just started, so it’s alright — there are a few more sheets safe and dry in the back of the bauble stall, so I can just —</p>
<p>“Sorry about your paint set,” the man says, almost slipping over again. I help him to the side of the stall, where he clings to a pole for dear life. “Where did you buy it, the Early Learning Centre?”</p>
<p>“You’re an arsehole,” I growl. “Stay here while I look for a pair of those spiky things.”</p>
<p>“Spiky things?” he asks, suddenly very unsure.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” I grunt, rifling through a box that isn’t mine. “To wear over your shoes.”</p>
<p>Locals don’t bother with them; they’re used to the winters here. They know how to dress to cross the cobbles without breaking their necks every day.</p>
<p>I don’t know who this bloke is in his fancy leather shoes, but he’s definitely <em> not </em> a local.</p>
<p>He’s still staring at me. He must do a lot of loitering — maybe he’s an expert. Some tourists are like that. He’s tall, and it’s adding to the overall effect of looming. Now that I think about it, he <em> does </em> look vaguely familiar...was he an Argos catalogue model? (He’s annoyingly handsome enough.) (I would buy a multi-pack of t-shirts off this man.)</p>
<p>Maybe he finds <em> me </em> a bit familiar too, because he’s not looking anywhere else.</p>
<p>He steps closer, letting go of the pole. I’ve found a pair of shoe grip things. (Do they have an actual name? Foot nails? Floor spikes?) I hold them up but he doesn’t seem interested in saving his own neck — there’s something in <em> his </em> hand, familiar in the lamp light spilling from the stall.</p>
<p>This clumsy stranger is holding paintings. <em> My </em> paintings. And aren’t those…? Did he —</p>
<p>Wait. Is this bloke part of that film company?</p>
<p>“Is there a problem?” I ask, hoping he’s not here for a refund. (Surely he doesn’t need the money. He looks like, on his way to falling on top of <em> me</em>, he tripped and fell through every floor of John Lewis.) “I told the director all sales were final.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>BAZ</b>
</p>
<p>Of all the things I expected to spill from the mysterious artist’s lips, it certainly was <em> not </em> a Lancashire accent. (Gareth evidently has the geographical nuance of a house brick.) Alas, this is the joy of visiting capital cities — you’ll always find more Britain than you bargained for.</p>
<p>I watch his eyes — blue, have I mentioned that yet? — flick to the paintings in my hand again, then back to what he was working on before I so rudely interrupted. (An abstract splash of snow and spoilt paint, the same shade as his eyes.)</p>
<p><em> “You,” </em> I say, realising it might sound a touch accusatory on its own. “You’re the artist.”</p>
<p>He pulls a face, holding up two rubbery strips of spiked metal. (No one else is wearing them. I refuse to be singled out in this way.) “Yeah, so what if I am? Like I said, all sales are final.”</p>
<p>“I’m not trying to return them,” I assure him, folding them inside my coat for safe-keeping. “We need them.”</p>
<p>The snow’s falling in earnest now; I’d hate for his artwork to disintegrate. I watch as he shifts his easel under the market stall’s awning, placing a rickety stool in front of it. I take a moment to observe him, his ripped jeans and seasonally inappropriate jumper. (He must be <em> freezing</em>.) (Perhaps his indignation alone is enough to keep him warm.) He’s shorter than me by a good few inches, though I don’t let height delude me into thinking I hold any sort of advantage.</p>
<p>“You <em> are </em> part of that film, then? The Christmas one? A little bloke with bad manners was here a couple of weeks ago — he bought the pictures off me.” He scratches his cheek, trying to recall something. “Don’t remember what he looked like. He was all belt buckle.”</p>
<p>His eyes are precisely the shade of blue I find most distracting.</p>
<p>Inwardly, I despair.</p>
<p>“<em>The Amazing Christmas Adventure in Prague</em>,” I say, stepping out of the way of a woman with a pushchair, wishing to browse the array of wooden baubles. (The man at the stall is watching me warily.)</p>
<p>I step closer to the easel, closer to the blue.</p>
<p>“Is that what it’s called?” He splashes ruined paint on a blank sheet of paper. The colours bleed together. “That’s a shit title.”</p>
<p>“I’m well aware.”</p>
<p>He puts down his brush and looks up at me, darkly amused. “So that <em> was </em>the director I met, then?”</p>
<p>I nod. I feel his gaze drifting over my hair, my shoulders, my waist, ending on the cobbles.</p>
<p>“Bit of a prat, isn’t he?”</p>
<p>“You have no idea.”</p>
<p>He swallows, and it’s as much a production as his lopsided easel.</p>
<p>“Who are you, then — the prop guy?”</p>
<p>I shake my head. (We don’t have a<em> prop guy</em>. Just numerous assistants who get annoyed if we handle things too roughly.) (If I crease these paintings, I’ll be hearing from Vera.) “No, I’m not...I’m an actor. My character carries these around with him, and…” (And what? Runs away with them? Goes on a profound journey to visit the places contained within?)</p>
<p>“Oh!” the artist says, hopping off his stool and executing a strange assortment of flapping movements that fail to see him launched into orbit. “Oh! <em> I know you!” </em></p>
<p>“No,” I groan, sensing what’s coming.</p>
<p>It’s never <em> Holby City </em> they remember, if they remember me at all. It’s something far worse. Something I tried and failed to have scrubbed from my IMDB page.</p>
<p>“I know who you are!” he threatens, pointing his detestable brush at me. (It wasn’t detestable five seconds ago, but it is now. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.)</p>
<p>“Don’t say it.”</p>
<p>“You were the vampire music teacher in <em> Bite of Your Life: The Musical. </em>We watched it at uni. We had this drinking game where every time the main character said —”</p>
<p>I walk away, stumbling and slipping, leaving him gasping for air. He gives chase — of course he does, he’s got <em> committed nuisance </em> written all over him — between the closely packed stalls. We have a near-collision with a man wearing a lopsided Santa hat, then I’m skidding over slick cobbles in my haste to escape the artist. (And, by extension, my past.)</p>
<p>“Wait!” he shouts, as inelegant as he is intelligible. “Come back! I didn’t — I can’t remember your name! I’m Simon!”</p>
<p>Simon. It’s already more of him than I need in my head, in my life. I skid to a stop next to a stall of festive fabrics, holding on for (to?) dear life.</p>
<p>“I’m not giving you my name. You’ll google me and have sufficient ammunition to last a lifetime.”</p>
<p>He peers up at me, ruddy-cheeked and flecked with spiralling snow.</p>
<p>“I won’t google you. I just...I wasn’t trying to be a twat, yeah? I just remembered you from the film.”</p>
<p>I grunt, folding my arms. (If I lean my entire body weight against the wall of this shack, I’ll remain upright. Or so one hopes.)</p>
<p>“Don’t you need to get back to your easel?” I ask, more bitingly than I intend.</p>
<p>Simon the artist remains unaffected. Perhaps nuance doesn’t register on whatever wavelength he’s operating along. “Look, wait — Simon Snow. There. You’ve got my full name, now.”</p>
<p>Simon Snow? A ridiculous name for a ridiculous man, no doubt.</p>
<p>“And just what I am supposed to do with it?” I drawl, unable to see where this is going.</p>
<p>He shrugs. That seems to be his principal means of communication. “I don’t know, look it up? And don’t judge me too harshly for the summer of 2018. It wasn’t the best time in my life.”</p>
<p>I bite my lip; for some reason, his blind faith in me not dragging his name through a mangle is touching. I steady myself against the wood behind me and sigh.</p>
<p>“Very well — point taken. My name is Baz. That’s all you’re getting.”</p>
<p>He smiles, a crooked thing of considerable charm, and tips his head back.</p>
<p>“Alright, then. So...you <em> are </em> an actor, then? In this shitty Christmas film.”</p>
<p>I roll my eyes. <em> Can’t you see I’m here to resist reality? Yet you insist on dragging me back every five seconds. </em></p>
<p>I move to flee, but he catches me easily, his trainers gripping the snow where my shoes fail me completely. He takes me by my arm and digs his fingers into my coat. (He’s so <em> warm. </em>I feel the burn of him through the fabric.)</p>
<p>“Let go,” I snap, trying to escape his grip and his eyes at the same time. “You can’t go around <em> grabbing </em> people.”</p>
<p>“Sorry, look — just stay still, will you? You’re going to fall over again.” I <em> do </em> stand still, though not because he tells me to. (I’m having what feels like a mini heart attack every time I take a perilous step forwards. Stationary is good; stationary is safe.)</p>
<p>He peers around, eyes catching on empty tables outside one of the bars that line the square. Though every part of me resists the idea, I find myself cooperating as he manoeuvres us over to them, lowering me into a metal chair dusted with snow. There’s no one else sitting here — the populace of Prague is far too intelligent to linger like this in the makings of winter.</p>
<p>My hand snakes inside my coat as I gather my breath, checking the paintings are still there. Simon (<em>Snow</em>, aptly enough) lowers himself into a chair across from me, and perhaps catches the telltale crinkle of paper.</p>
<p>“Two things,” he says, holding up three fingers. (He <em> does </em> realise. Eventually.) “First, I genuinely liked <em> Bite of Your Life</em>. Fucking legendary stuff. <em> And </em> —<em>” </em> he waves his middle finger in my face. I’m tempted to bite it off. “— I think it’s dead cool that my paintings are going to be in a film. Over the moon, really.”</p>
<p>I glare at him, waiting for the mockery to creep in, though it doesn't.</p>
<p>“<em>Bite </em> received two percent on that blasted tomato website,” I mutter. “It ruined my social media engagement for an entire year. I had to make a comeback on <em> Heartbeat</em>, of all things.”</p>
<p>“It's a great film,” Snow says, brandishing his paintbrush. (He balances it behind his ear. It reminds me of Verity Hettingpole.) (Kill me now.) “What do reviewers know? Fuck all, really. I like loads of stuff that newspapers and websites say is shit.”</p>
<p>“How reassuring.”</p>
<p>Still, he’s making an effort. An attempt to be kind to a stranger. There was no way for him to know that my filmography triggers a fight or flight response.</p>
<p>
  <em> And here I am in Prague, making another bad film. Another mistake along the way. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I could tell him I don’t know what comes after. See if he has any sage career advice. </em>
</p>
<p>For some strange reason Simon Snow is sitting here, as though he expects some sort of conversation. A waiter approaches, asking what we’d like to drink — his expression makes clear that we won’t be welcome without ordering, shit gripless shoes or otherwise.</p>
<p>“Two mulled wines, please,” I say, presuming they’ll have some. <em> 'Tis the season. </em> (They <em>must</em> have some; the waiter nods and turns without blinking.) I see Snow reaching into his jeans, and I hold up a hand. “No need. I’ll pay — it’s the least I can do, after knocking you over.” <em> Ruining your paints. Breaking your easel. </em></p>
<p>I’m terrible at knowing what to say. The offer seems to hit a decent enough mark — Snow smiles at me, sliding his wallet back into the depths of his clothes. (There’s no way he’s warm. Where is his woolly hat, his scarf and gloves?)</p>
<p>He points to my chest, where his paintings lie.</p>
<p>“Have you been to any of those places? You should.”</p>
<p>“Not yet,” I admit, retrieving the watercolours and placing them on the table between us. “Well, only here — the square. And Charles Bridge, I suppose — we were filming there today. I left the set and walked over here to see...this.”</p>
<p>I gesture at the snow, the fairy lights, the disgusting amount of sentiment floating above our heads.</p>
<p>The waiter returns with our wine, and I’m grateful to have something warm to slide my hands around. (I’d bet good money that <em> Snow </em> would be warm if—)</p>
<p>“So your character’s a tourist, or what? The director tried to tell me the plot mid-haggle, but I got a bit lost. In the end I just really wanted him to go away.”</p>
<p>Understandable.</p>
<p>I clear my throat, shamelessly watching his mouth as he takes a sip from the cup, red marks staining his top lip.</p>
<p>“Yes, it’s rather a convoluted affair,” I remark, completely distracted. (<em>For shame, </em>Basil.) “My character, Thistle, is a businessman visiting Prague. There’s an awful lot of nonsense, a unicorn appears, and nothing good happens at all.”</p>
<p>“Oh, so yeah, a tourist — you<em> should </em>see these places. Definitely. It’ll get you into it — the city, I mean. Make things more realistic for the story stuff.”</p>
<p><em> Get me into it. </em>Is that what I want? For this bore of a job to become a passion project? Perish the thought.</p>
<p>“I will try,” I say tersely, watching as wisps of white land in his hair. (Curls. Plenty of them.) (An excess of bronze.) “In between shoots, perhaps. We don’t have any days off — Gareth forgot to pencil them in.”</p>
<p>“Have you been here before?”</p>
<p>“To Prague? No. Never had the chance.”</p>
<p>He looks up at me from the depths of his wine, seeing lord knows what — failure? Disappointment? A faint stain of bewilderment?</p>
<p>Whatever he finds in me, it seems to spur some sort of decision within <em> him. </em></p>
<p>“Like I said, it’s dead cool that my paintings are going to be in a film. If you get a break, come and find me, yeah? The market’s here for the next few weeks. I’m here on Saturdays and Sundays. I could show you where things are — like Strahov Monastery, that’s worth seeing. And the old ruined fortress on the hill, Vyšehrad. Actually, you could see the Astronomical Clock right now, while you’re here — it’s just round the corner. If you go —”</p>
<p><em> If you go. </em> The wine is going straight to my head. It’s warm and spiced and terribly deceptive — I don’t drink often, and combined with the shock of the cold and the sincerity of Snow, it’s leaving me rather out of sorts.</p>
<p>I listen as he rambles on gamely about this precious clock of his, which by all accounts I absolutely <em> gotta see before ya die, Baz, I’m tellin ya</em>, whilst I tip the last dregs of warmth down my throat.</p>
<p>I could order another; the waiter’s lingering nearby, it’d be easy enough.</p>
<p>But what then? Do I get drunk in the centre of Prague with a stranger, weaving odd routes in the quest for my lumpy hotel bed?</p>
<p>Never mind that he’s handsome, Basil. Never mind that he’s the most interesting thing that’s happened to you all week.</p>
<p>This is foolish. <em> I </em> am foolish.</p>
<p>The snow and the glow from the market lights only make Simon all the more endearing.</p>
<p>All the more tempting.</p>
<p>I look to where he’s pointing, an imaginary path cutting across the square — yes, the crowd in that direction <em> does </em>seem slightly denser. The Astronomical Clock must be one of the city’s favoured sights. His raised hand must cause confusion within the waiter, because all of a sudden there are two more cups of wine being set before us, wisps of heat rising to take the chill off my cheeks.</p>
<p>It’d be rude to refuse, and I <em> do </em> like the taste.</p>
<p>Towards the end of the second cup, I consider whether Snow’s earlier offer to act as my tour guide was genuine, or if he was merely being polite. (It’s alluring, I’ll admit. Our collision has led to a rather pleasant evening.) (Does he not realise I’m here to sulk and lament my wasted potential?) </p>
<p>“Thank you, but I ought to be going,” I say, interrupting a story about a football and a runaway dog. “I’m sure the ancient clock with the skeletons is absolutely delightful, but I’ll be fine for now.” I’m rambling, I’m aware. But I can’t seem to stop. “I’d hate to interrupt your painting, and...whatever else it is you do. You say you’re only here at weekends? To procure the sale of such wares. I’m sure I can find the clock, and everything else, by myself. Hopefully there won’t be any dogs with footballs involved.”</p>
<p>He looks crestfallen, his second cup of wine untouched in front of him. I should repair this somehow — compliment his artwork, thank him for his time.</p>
<p>But instead, for the second time in as many minutes, I try to run away.</p>
<p>I launch myself from the chair without grace, sending Snow’s drink flying. It lands first in his lap, then clatters on the stones. I hear the waiter give an almighty tut behind me, then there’s a <em> scene, </em> despite the fact I swore I was done with those for the day.</p>
<p>Snow’s on his feet, patting at red-stained jeans. His cheeks are dark, but he doesn’t look angry — if anything, he’s about ready to laugh.</p>
<p>I can’t stand it.</p>
<p>I steady myself on the next table over. (Note to self: do <em> not </em>leave the hotel tomorrow morning without gloves. I could lose a finger to this.) Then I stumble away from the bar, weaving once again amongst the edges of the market crowd.</p>
<p>Snow is steadier than me, both in terms of how much he’s drunk, and how suitable his attire is for this fast-depreciating weather — he calls my name and steps in front of me, chin jutting out in a defiant way. “Baz! Where are you going?”</p>
<p>“Hotel,” I say vacantly, wondering which side street I’ll need to take. Perhaps this one over here…? It looks slightly less hopeless than the rest.</p>
<p>He’s blocking me again, hands finding my hips to steady me. I feel a burn rush across my face — let’s pray he mistakes it for wine, and that alone.</p>
<p>
  <em> It’s the worst sort of Christmas film. Fall into the arms of a handsome stranger, let him beguile you with geographical facts, then instead of romance...Cinderella-meets-Jack-Skellington flees the scene of the crime. </em>
</p>
<p>He’s holding something out to me, lips parted, a horribly honest look on his face. I look down to see his paintings, <em> Thistle’s </em> paintings, the vital heart of Prague — I slip them back inside my coat. <em> Precious, </em> I think. <em> Art without value. </em></p>
<p>The snow’s falling in a serious way, arguing with my eyelashes.</p>
<p>“Thank you. I’m sorry to leave in a hurry, and sorry to scald you with wine, but I have another horrendous mistake to make in the morning, and...and...”</p>
<p>
  <em> [Insert line here.] </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> [Please?] </em>
</p>
<p>(Where <em> do </em> all these lost lines go? Is there a graveyard somewhere, crowded with the many things I never said?)</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about the wine — I’ve got a spare pair of jeans, who cares?” He looks around, then up.</p>
<p>
  <em> I care, Snow. </em>
</p>
<p>There’s no mistaking what’s there, written plainly on his face — love. He’s in love with where he is, with what he’s doing.</p>
<p>I wonder what that’s like.</p>
<p>Perhaps such thoughts are clear on my own face, because next he says, “Baz, if you’re not happy, you know you can change it, yeah? You can change endings. Just cross things out and try again.”</p>
<p>I scowl, thread pulled abruptly from between my fingertips.</p>
<p>“What are you talking about, Snow? I’ve made various suggestions to Gareth de Gates — all of them, shredded like unwanted utility bills.”</p>
<p>He frowns. We step aside to let a family pass, looking far too cheery about things. He’s close — I catch a heady scent of whatever aftershave he slathers himself with in the morning. (I like it. Woodsy and fresh.)</p>
<p>“No, I mean...it’s why I’m here, teaching and painting and just...<em>being</em>. Home was too much pressure, all this expectation I’d never meet. And I’m not saying it’s right for everyone, but it was right for <em> me</em>. For then, for now. So you could —”</p>
<p>I cut him off. Things have taken a turn for the reflective, and I’m in no mood (and with the way the wine’s tugging at me, no fit state) to participate.</p>
<p>“I’m here to film a straight-to-DVD disappointment and then trade an empty bed in Prague for an empty bed in London, Snow. That is all.”</p>
<p>Emotions flit across his face, and I’m desperate to read them. He licks his lips and says, in a display of heartbreak worthy of the finest Channel Four production, “I like Christmas films. They’re not all bad.”</p>
<p>I’m completely thrown off. “What — I...is that what you’re taking from this? That I don’t like Christmas films?”</p>
<p>He squares his jaw and rolls his shoulders back, as if anticipating a fight. “<em>Love Actually. Bridget Jones. Notting Hill</em>.”</p>
<p>“...are you reciting Hugh Grant films at me?”</p>
<p>“No, Christmas Films! <em> The Land Before Time. The Lion and the Witch in the Wardrobe </em>—”</p>
<p>I wave my hands, begging the madness to end. “<em>Notting Hill </em> is hardly a Christmas film! And <em> The Land Before Time? </em> Like to watch cartoon dinosaurs suffer, do you? I trust you <em> are </em> aware that the witch is not actually <em> in </em> the wardrobe? The correct title is—”</p>
<p>“She <em> is </em> in the wardrobe,” he says indignantly. “Fucking <em> Narnia’s </em> in the wardrobe!”</p>
<p>He’s got a point. I flail for higher ground.</p>
<p>“Just because there are some good films released theatrically between the months of November and January, it doesn’t mean—”</p>
<p>“Why are you even doing this film if it’s so bad? Why don’t you walk away?”</p>
<p>Ah, therein lies the heart of the matter. Snow cuts to the core of me quicker than I’d like.</p>
<p>
  <em> I don’t know what else I can do, Simon. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> After this, I fear there’s nothing. </em>
</p>
<p>I stand, dumbfounded. He is indirectly defending Gareth de Gates’s lazy work ethic, and I’m standing here letting it happen.</p>
<p>“It’s a job. Don’t you ever partake in things you dislike?”</p>
<p>He folds his arms. “Not anymore. Not really. Found a job I <em> enjoy</em>, didn’t I? Two of them.”</p>
<p>I try again to push past him. Again, he pins me in place. (With his eyes <em>and</em> his arms. What business does a painter of scenic watercolours have, being this strong?) (Why am I so <em>weak</em>?) “It’s not possible to change the ending, Snow. The director accepts no criticism of his script, though the bloody thing’s in no fit shape to be experienced.” </p>
<p>“I’m not talking about the film,” he says quickly, gesturing at the square around us. “I mean...just — the <em> ending</em>, yeah? If you’re not happy, you can change it. If you want.”</p>
<p>(If I weren’t living it, I’d say this moment was too trite to be true. It’s straight out of a low-budget novel-to-screen TV adaptation.)</p>
<p>(Snow seems to have the same thought.)</p>
<p>“Funny. <em> This </em>is like a film, if you think about it. You, coming to the square because of my paintings. Walking past my stall. Knocking me over and ruining my livelihood. Spilling a drink on me. What’s next, the apologetic amends montage? Maybe you could run that by your director — see if he’ll write it in. It’s not a bad story.”</p>
<p><em> No, </em> I think, looking down at him. <em> It’s not a bad story at all. </em></p>
<p><em> But it’s not </em> my <em> story. How could it be? </em></p>
<p>
  <em> It wasn’t supposed to be like this. </em>
</p>
<p>I’m standing in Old Town Square getting increasingly existential with a man I clobbered with an easel and a tiny violin. I wish the Christmas tree would topple over and put me out of my misery.</p>
<p>
  <em> I’ve Thistled twice in one day. The easel, the wine. Doesn’t Coriolanus spill a drink on Verity, the second time they meet? </em>
</p>
<p>The wine was a mistake. Snow’s right to be thinking of endings — <em> for indeed, this must end. </em></p>
<p>I make a third escape attempt and this time it’s successful; I push past him and slip under an awning before he can make a grab for me, ending up by a cart selling what appear to be crisps speared on kebab skewers. I then slide my way through an open gate into nowhere, and I’m off.</p>
<p>He doesn’t follow. He calls out, accosted by a marauding pushchair five steps behind, but I’m careful not to hear.</p>
<p>Then I’m walking into the dark without direction, furious that he’s given me so much to think about, when I had only wanted to walk. Without reason, without purpose.</p>
<p>
  <em> The wine. Two cups of wine and I’m dissolving. How disgusting. </em>
</p>
<p>It doesn’t take long to feel thoroughly lost — when I cease my stumbling march, it’s to find myself on an unfamiliar street corner, feeling the crinkle of paper as Snow’s paintings shift beneath my coat. I’ll have to look at the maps app on my phone to discern where I am, but I don’t want to. Not yet. I don’t want to let the world back in until I absolutely must.</p>
<p>I look west, in the vague direction I believe Charles Bridge to be. Is Wellbelove still trapped in her re-shoots? Surely not; the snow’s a dervish now, whipping around my feet. Has Gareth succeeded in driving everyone insane?</p>
<p>My mental geography isn’t up to scratch, but I believe our hotel to be east of the bridge. I have vague memories of watching the taxi driver’s GPS device as Wellbelove and I piled into the backseat this morning. I do an about-turn and take another unfamiliar avenue, careful to avoid the crowds heading for Old Town Square. I lean on walls, I stare through windows.</p>
<p>It’ll all be so beautiful, covered in snow.</p>
<p>And the artist at his easel, blue eyes dark amidst splashes of bright...</p>
<p>There’s a voice in my head that isn’t my own. It’s telling me to change the ending.</p>
<p>
  <em> No. I daren’t, I can’t. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> It’s far too late for new beginnings. </em>
</p>
<p>I walk over tram tracks and centuries of worn stone, and I never, never think about endings.</p>
<p>The way the buildings look, silhouetted in moonlight and stone, like faint brush strokes against paper.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Up the tower</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <b>BAZ</b>
</p>
<p>I arrive on set on Sunday morning in a brighter mood than when I departed, despite the bad news. (Our return flight to London next week has been cancelled, and so Wellbelove and I must now join the scrum to purchase tickets on other flights.) (Possibly I’m still feeling the effects of that murderous spiced wine, and can’t care enough.)</p>
<p>I found the hotel in Náměstí Republiky easily enough, after I abandoned Snow in Old Town Square — it wasn’t far for me to stumble — and after a hot shower to wash the day away, I slept well enough.</p>
<p>Was I hungover when I woke? A gentleman never tells.</p>
<p>(Yes. Yes I was.)</p>
<p>My phone notifications weren’t quite the abomination I was expecting this morning. There was a missed call and a wholly unconcerned voicemail from Wellbelove, in which she incinerated every aspect of Gareth de Gates and his terrible writing. In addition, there were a few misspelt texts from said director, reminding me to be up bright and early. And <em> oh, don’t forget the stolen watercolours, because we’ll need them for the first scene of the day! </em>(Only he didn’t phrase it quite so pleasantly.) (THE FUCKIN PAINTINS PITCH!!!!! is one of several messages he graced me with.)</p>
<p>It was a simple enough task to dispense with cursory communications and reenter the world of the living, though it has proven difficult for me to find focus with two enchantingly dull blue eyes dancing in my vision.</p>
<p>They were there when I fell asleep. They were there when I woke.</p>
<p>I’ve the sneaking suspicion they’ll be following me throughout the day.</p>
<p>Curse you, Simon Snow. Curse your seasonal nonsense.</p>
<p>He likely had no idea of the significance of his words. Had no idea they would punch through me as they have. <em> Change the ending, Baz. If you want to. </em></p>
<p>Sounds simple, doesn’t it?</p>
<p>If only anything were so simple in this life.</p>
<p>My escape today lies within the city itself — bright with white, snow carpeting rooftops and pavements. For a moment I’m struck by its emptiness — like the blank page perched on Snow’s easel. I take my phone out to capture a photograph — should I post it to Instagram with a teasing caption? <em> Fill in the blanks. [Insert deeper meaning here.] </em></p>
<p>
  <em> No. Best not dwell on that more than necessary. </em>
</p>
<p>I watch my co-star as she adjusts her scarf, then reaches for my hand under the heat of the cameras. To my dismay and immense embarrassment, we’re filming this morning in Old Town Square — Gareth informed us, after our table reading, that we only had permission to film once in the square, and this was it. Now or never.</p>
<p>Wellbelove and I have completed our desultory tour of the few stalls cordoned off for filming, and we’re now supposed to be marvelling at buildings, a drift of wind-blown snow misting over us as we walk and gaze, walk and gaze. <em> [Insert wistfulness here.] </em></p>
<p>I’m not sure we’re truly capturing the spirit of things. Will the grand total of five viewers this film attracts not wish to see something marginally sweeter? Agatha Wellbelove might well be Celebz Objectified’s <em> Top Most Darlingest Actor of the Year, </em> but that doesn’t mean we have anything approaching romantic tension in our scenes together. We’re both too bored with the script and pained by Gareth’s general presence.</p>
<p>“Over there!” he shouts without an ounce of subtlety, no doubt ruining another take. (What <em> does </em> he do with all this useless footage?) “Hold her hand and walk to the bench! And look bloody <em> happy </em> about it, for the love of Ant and Dec.”</p>
<p>I try not to grimace — the last thing I need immortalised in film is the increasingly concerning forehead wrinkles I’m developing. (Remember the halcyon days of my Mageic Makeup contract? All that free moisturiser?)</p>
<p>I do as commanded and hold Wellbelove’s hand, guiding her over precarious cobblestones. It's a wonder we don’t both go flying; I’ve got my shit shoes on again today, as Snow might say.</p>
<p>Agatha scrapes turgid lines with great reluctance from the back of her tongue.</p>
<p>“Oh, Cori. Isn’t it beautiful here? Wasn’t it worth all that drama at the airport?”</p>
<p><em> Cori</em>. I lose 10HP each time Verity calls him that. (Wellbelove is well aware of the mortal distress she’s causing.)</p>
<p>I scowl at the bench we’re supposed to sit on. I scowl at the fence it’s positioned near, and I scowl at the pigeon, perched on said fence. The dusting of snow does nothing to improve things — it’s scowls all around, for the foreseeable future. I take sly pleasure in slipping off Thistle’s jacket and placing it over the damp wood. Agatha crosses her legs as we sit, and leans her head on my shoulder.</p>
<p>It’s my line. I know it is. Gareth actually bothered to write some for this scene.</p>
<p>Instead of anything resembling Coriolanus Thistle’s characterisation, however, I instead find myself accosted once more by infuriatingly blue eyes.</p>
<p>(He’s in my head. These are the end days.) (Is Agatha morphing into him? <em>Let me die</em>.)</p>
<p>(Also, is that not actually <em> him, </em>in the cursed flesh, standing over there beside the barrier?)</p>
<p>I groan so hard my entire being vibrates, from head to toe. Agatha lifts her head long enough to growl at me, the resulting sound causing a renewed cry of cut from our despondent director.</p>
<p>“You’re falling in love with him, Aga! Bloody look like it!”</p>
<p>“Does he know what an Aga is?” I muse.</p>
<p>“If you call me that again, de Gates, I’ll have you poisoned.” She twists to face me. “What are you complaining for, Pitch? Has something —”</p>
<p>Her torment ends mid-sentence. I don’t dare follow her gaze to find out why.</p>
<p>I know she’s spotted Simon. Her cunning mind can draw its own conclusions from there.</p>
<p>“Oh, Basil,” she murmurs, leaning into the crook of my neck. “You’re terribly predictable.”</p>
<p>I don’t know what she’s talking about. It’s not as though I have a <em> type</em>. I haven’t been out with anyone in years; covert dinners and private cinema screenings grow tedious, after a time. Being alone was always easier.</p>
<p>She knows I’m pathetic. And I’m not <em> that </em> good of an actor.</p>
<p>What in the seven names of Coventry Amateur Dramatics Society is Snow doing here? After yesterday’s embarrassing display, I shouldn’t think he’d want anything more to do with me.</p>
<p>Perhaps the film set is blocking his usual route to his easel. (Or perhaps he’s too bloody nosy for his own good.) The market hasn’t yet stirred to life, but he <em> did </em> mention that he works here on Sundays. He might get started early, for all I know. The forecast said the sky would be clear until evening — he might want to get his sales in now. Lessen the odds of being knocked over by another disaster in crap shoes, come nightfall.</p>
<p>I feel a burn in my stomach that may not be entirely down to the hotel’s unique take on a continental breakfast.</p>
<p>
  <em> What’s my line? Is it my turn again? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Oh, for god’s sake. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> [Insert line here.] [Insert hope here.] [Insert dignity here.] </em>
</p>
<p>“All that trouble,” Agatha prompts, dealing me a sharp elbow to the ribs that I wholly deserve. “Wasn’t it worth it, Cori?”</p>
<p>I conduct an eye roll for the ages. They’ll have to waste twenty minutes cropping it out of the final shot, no doubt. I flail for words arranged in a decent enough sentence, trying not to glare at Simon Snow as he stands there, rosy and cheerful with morning.</p>
<p>My hopes to make it through a day of filming without embarrassing myself fade like a watercolour left out in the rain.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>SIMON</b>
</p>
<p>Can’t believe my luck. Not only did I get up early enough to jam a couple of rohlík into my face before work started, but I also decided to cross the square at exactly the right time to catch <em> The Amazing Christmas Adventure in Prague </em>in action.</p>
<p>There’s Baz! On set. Looking bored as fuck, but also like a dead serious actor. It’s still mad to me that my paintings are going to be in a film, and they’re right <em> there</em>, in the hands of someone who had a scorching three-episode run on <em> Holby City. </em>(There are clips on YouTube.) (Baz had a beard in one of them; I hardly recognised him. Looked good, though.)</p>
<p>I can’t tell what this scene’s meant to be about. Maybe I arrived too late to catch the context — he’s sitting on a bench with a pretty blonde woman, holding her hand. (If it were <em> me </em> holding his hand, I’d probably press my thumb just there, between his thumb and forefinger.) (But, I mean. I’m not, so...)</p>
<p>This is a <em> romantic </em> film, right? <em> Something something </em> unicorns and weird shit that doesn’t make sense, <em> something something </em> true love. But these two...they both look like they’re on the waiting list for a personality transplant. (Has Baz noticed me? Maybe I’m putting him off.) (Last night he practically did backflips to get away from me.)</p>
<p>I stand behind the barrier with a few other nosy parkers and wait to see what happens next. (Are they at the unicorn scene yet? Will they CGI it in, or do they have a real one?)</p>
<p>A weedy bloke in a Man United shirt is yelling something, and Baz looks like he wants to throttle him. (It’s the same look he was giving me at the bar when I was talking about <em> Notting Hill</em>, and I now know what it means.) There are a couple of girls next to me, and they look dead excited. Maybe they’re Baz’s fans? (Or they might just think he’s fit.) (They’d be right.)</p>
<p>I put my hand in my pocket and cross my fingers. I don’t know why, but I want this to go well. Baz was unhappy last night, and he should be able to enjoy where he is and what he’s doing.</p>
<p>The Man U fan — must be the director; I remember him from the market — shouts <em> action, </em>and I grip the barrier.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>BAZ</b>
</p>
<p>Four takes to conjure a few measly lines of dialogue. I’m an embarrassment. Far from the daytime television favourite who once took <em> Minor Celebrity Antiques Roadshow </em> by storm.</p>
<p>We’re getting there, though...if one squints. I tell Verity — Thistle’s newly-acknowledged love interest — that <em> yes, of course it was worth it. </em>In true Wellbelove don’t-call-this-acting fashion, she reels off a few stilted descriptions of Prague’s romantic sights, no doubt ripped shamelessly from a Wikipedia article. I, as anyone but myself, feign interest.</p>
<p>I mentally lope through the succeeding dirge about <em> stars </em> and <em> magic </em> and <em> star-crossed magical lovers</em>, and end the scene <em><strong>staring into her eyes</strong></em>, as the script requests in bold italics.</p>
<p>Right before Gareth cries <em> cut, </em> I suffer a moment of madness due to the ongoing proximity of Simon Snow. <em> Don’t you have better things to do? What did you say your day job was, tossing regional slang at unsuspecting businessmen? </em></p>
<p>I say something that only Wellbelove might hear, and I’m sure she does, because she shoots me a curious look before rising from the bench.</p>
<p>“Do you ever think about changing the ending?”</p>
<p>“What? Basil, I think about it every day. <em> Unicorns, </em>honestly.”</p>
<p>Then the scene really <em> is </em> over and I’m shrugging off my nerves, still trying not to look directly at the barrier.</p>
<p>“Do you know that man over there? The scruffy-but-well-meaning one. The one who looks as though he might have lived a hundred lives before this one, all of them ending in a considerable amount of credit card debt. He’s staring at you.”</p>
<p>I bite my lip. “No, I don’t know him.”</p>
<p>She smiles at me slyly. “He’s <em> definitely </em>staring. And you’re definitely lying.”</p>
<p><em> Blasted Snow</em>. <em> Say one pretty thing and my brain’s the consistency of a Tunnock’s tea cake. </em></p>
<p>“Is there no one else for you to torment?” I ask her. Wellbelove shrugs and saunters away.</p>
<p>“Pitch,” Gareth calls, lounging back in his chair. He must be bloody freezing — it’s below zero and he’s wearing a fucking three-seasons-old away kit, of all things — but he’s determined not to show weakness. I can only imagine what a power trip this experience has been for him. <em> Oh, how the mighty have fallen. </em> “The next scene’s on Charles Bridge again. More hand-holding is required. Can you cope?”</p>
<p>I stare daggers through him, though it has no effect. Times were that I could kill a man with a look, but no more. The aura produced by my 2016 Best New Actor BAFTA nomination shrivelled up and died years ago.</p>
<p>
  <em> No, Gareth. I’m not sure I can cope. Not today. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I’m a blank page, and there’s the artist. </em>
</p>
<p>I nod to Wellbelove and hope she understands. <em> I need to see about a scruffy man and the debt I owe him. </em> She still has solo scenes to shoot — she’s been putting off her big dance number, though perhaps now’s the time she surrenders. The crew can busy themselves with other things this morning; there are certainly more pressing matters than me.</p>
<p>Instead of returning to the cluster of assistants and demanding a look at my script, as is the usual procedure, I turn right and march from the film set, back towards the madness of the square.</p>
<p>“Pitch!” Gareth shrieks, every inch the schoolboy I once knew. “What are you doing?”</p>
<p><em> Changing the ending</em>, I tell myself. <em> In a way. </em></p>
<p>As I pass Snow I cast him a glance. I’ve no idea how he’ll interpret it. I spent hours in bed last night contemplating how such a person possibly manages to exist in this life, and drew no firm conclusions.</p>
<p>I can’t be sure, but I think he makes a move to follow me. (There’s an awful lot of clattering and swearing, which seems to be his <em> modus operandi.</em>)</p>
<p>Let him follow me, though I don’t know where I’m going.</p>
<p>He’s in my head enough. He might as well be in my shadow, too.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>SIMON</b>
</p>
<p>For someone who seems fed up with life, Baz sure can walk with purpose. I follow him as best I can as he crosses Old Town Square, slipping down an alleyway between two coffee shops. He’s not got a clue where he’s going — he’s picked one of the narrowest, most crowded streets to escape down — and I catch him quickly, despite his legs being way longer than mine. (He’s like an angry gothic heron.)</p>
<p>“Oi!” I shout. “Hold on!”</p>
<p>
  <em> Was I not supposed to follow? What was that funny look about? </em>
</p>
<p>I don’t generally make a habit of following handsome actors down alleyways.</p>
<p>But after last night...well, I thought we clicked a bit, if I’m honest. Before he spilt a drink on me. Before he freaked out and skidded away into the night, like a ghost on roller skates. </p>
<p>At least there’s no snow this morning — he’s got the same shit pair of shoes on, but somehow he’s making blinding progress across the stones.</p>
<p>“Baz, wait!” I shout, heads turning our way. I’m creating a drama and he’s probably sick of those. I shimmy between a group of tourists and run up behind him. It’s exactly like last night. “Bloody hold on, will you?”</p>
<p>He <em> does </em> hold on, but not in the way I meant — a couple of lads come <em> wahey</em>ing around a corner and nearly knock him over. He bashes against a trdelník stand and swears his face off. (I didn’t think he had words like that in him. Is this his cameo on EastEnders, come to life?)</p>
<p>“Snow,” he breathes, rubbing at his ribs. “This city’s trying to kill me.”</p>
<p>“No it’s not,” I laugh. “You’re just navigating it wrong. And the shoes...well, let’s not worry about that right now. Where are you going? Sounds like they needed you back on that bench.”</p>
<p>He’s upset. I’m making light of it because I don’t know what else to do; he looks around, blinking away tears. He’s still holding my watercolours, and I take a look at them to see which one’s on top.</p>
<p>Petřín Lookout Tower. It looks a bit like the Eiffel Tower except smaller, and it’s sticking out of a hillside. It’s across the river, but it won’t seem far if we take the metro, or a tram. (Honestly, with public transport like this, nothing’s ever far.) (I can’t say I was that mad about public transport before I moved here, but I’m into it now. My travel pass is my best mate.)</p>
<p>Maybe a nice view’s just what Baz needs to calm down. Get him out of his head, out of whatever’s got him ready to run again. Find a different perspective.</p>
<p>“Come on,” I tell him, taking his arm. (He lets me.) (He’s not got much choice, really — we’re boxed in on both sides by tourists heading in the opposite direction, and if we get separated, it’s certain death.) “I’ve got an idea.”</p>
<p>“I clearly remember declining your offer of a guided tour,” he says through gritted teeth. (Is he always like this? He’s like a rhino with toothache.) “Stop stalking me.”</p>
<p>“You never actually said no,” I reply, as we struggle around another corner. He picked the worst street in Prague to flee down. “And even if you did, the offer would still stand.” <em> Also, I’m not stalking you. You just happened to be exactly where I was going. </em></p>
<p>“You don’t even <em> know </em> me,” he says, still rubbing at his ribs. (Though I suspect it’s more his pride that’s bruised, than anything.) “Don’t you work on Sundays? Is there not an easel for you to slouch before?”</p>
<p>“Get over yourself,” I growl. The street’s opening up now; we can breathe again. He doesn’t tell me to let go of his arm, so I hold on in case we take another clobbering. “If you want to go back to the square, just say — I can have you on set in five minutes, propped up on a wet bench.”</p>
<p>He looks away, and I reckon we’re in a different sort of scene now, without knowing how we got here.</p>
<p>“The market can wait,” I say, softer than before. “Come on. Let’s go and see the tower; the view from the top’s amazing. You’ll bloody love it.”</p>
<p>He agrees, but in a way that lets me know he’s not happy about it, and everything to follow is going to come wrapped in ready-made complaint.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>BAZ</b>
</p>
<p>I complain constantly on our walk to the tram stop. I complain about the lack of seating, about the bumpy tracks and our fellow passengers. I pretend to complain about the river as we cross it, though inwardly I’m filled with admiration. As we alight from the tram in an unfamiliar area, I complain about the pavement, and about the park he drags me through. (At least the paths here have been swept; I can walk with confidence. I <em> don’t </em> complain about that.)</p>
<p>Things improve once we’re at the top of Snow’s precious tower.</p>
<p>He was right about the view. I <em> do </em> love it. (Though I’d rather fling myself over the railing and into oblivion than admit it.)</p>
<p>(Also...don't Thistle and Hettingpole take in the view from the castle walls? Verity, windswept and rosy-cheeked on the battlements.) (My life is a joke, and Gareth is its author.)</p>
<p>He turns to me, leaning on his elbows with the wind making a mockery of his hair, and asks, “What do you think?”</p>
<p>I don’t know anymore. I don’t know how to answer that.</p>
<p>
  <em> I think you’re being far too kind to me. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I think I’d like to be kinder. </em>
</p>
<p>I don’t say anything. I look away instead, and let him watch me.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>SIMON</b>
</p>
<p>I’m right about the view, though apparently Baz would rather die than admit it.</p>
<p>It was a pain getting him up here...though in defence of all his moaning, there <em> are </em> a lot of steps. (Two hundred and ninety-nine.) There’s wind today, as well — it’s blowing us all over the place as we hold onto the railing. Baz keeps trying to smooth his hair down, but it doesn’t look bad. Wavy and soft.)</p>
<p>It was definitely worth the climb. No amount of moaning and groaning could make that untrue.</p>
<p>He almost looks peaceful, taking in the rooftops and spires. There’s so much more life in Prague than what you see from the ground. It was more of a march than I remembered, following the paths through the park below, but once he realised where we were going he got more into it. (<em>I don’t do aimless excursions, Snow. We’d best be here for that bloody tower, or I’ll be mightily displeased.</em>)</p>
<p>He’d seen the lookout tower on a map and assumed it was some sort of low-budget Eiffel scenario. (It <em> does </em> like it. But there’s nothing low-budget about this view.)</p>
<p>“Not bad, Snow,” he concedes, black hair blowing back over his shoulders. (Mine’s in my eyes. Can’t see a fucking thing.)</p>
<p>“Are you going to complain all the way down? There are still as many steps on the descent, you realise.”</p>
<p>“It’s possible, yes. There may be minor complaint.”</p>
<p>I stayed up late last night, looking up stuff online. I don’t know why, but I was raging with adrenaline after what happened at the market. (Was there something in that wine? Other than a shit load of cinnamon.) </p>
<p>I know Baz would be pissed off if I admitted I searched his name. I saw stuff he’d probably prefer I didn’t. There was nothing <em> that </em> bad, mind — his IMDB page is alright, and he’s got a fair few fan sites, though none of them have updated recently. I looked at his Instagram; he posted a picture of Prague Castle a week ago. (No caption.)</p>
<p>I saw reviews of <em> Bite of Your Life: The Musical </em>but scrolled past, out of respect.</p>
<p>I’m not sure what I was looking for, to be honest. He was on my mind. I had convos to plan — I only have one “student” on a Sunday morning, but still. Why did I think I had time to waste looking for the answers to Baz Pitch? (Conclusion: there aren’t any.)</p>
<p>But...I don’t know. Maybe I get what he’s afraid of, in a way — I’d hate having my whole life dissected like that. Being a different person every day, when it’s hard enough being yourself sometimes.</p>
<p>I’m sure he’d say he isn’t like me, but he is. Sort of. A bit, if you squint.</p>
<p>And isn’t it weird how he literally fell into my arms last night? Definitely some highly suspicious Christmas film content. (But who’s writing the script?)</p>
<p>I was pretending until I came here. Acting. Being something I wasn’t. I’d convinced myself there had to be this huge purpose to chase, and that when I caught it, I <em> had </em> to serve it. I had to be part of something bigger, even if it wasn’t making me happy.</p>
<p>It’s better now, being here. Painting, travelling, walking by the river. Climbing the tower to take in a view I don’t think I’ll ever tire of.</p>
<p>Maybe finding Prague will be good for Baz, too. People take and take and pull you in every direction, but cities make room for you.</p>
<p>“What do you think?” I ask, wondering if he’s going to get in trouble later. He technically stormed out of his workplace, right? Like he stormed out of the market last night. Maybe we shouldn’t have come this far from the film set — it’ll take an hour to get back.</p>
<p>“It’s beautiful,” he replies, and I think he’s talking about the city.</p>
<p>I agree, but I’m looking at him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>BAZ</b>
</p>
<p>Snow was right to glorify the view, even as I stood at the bottom, wishing pain would rain down upon him for forcing me into unwarranted exercise. (<em>Baz Pitch doth not move more than the contract dictates.</em>)</p>
<p>Trees occupy the skyline. Bare with winter and reaching up, a miniature forest between us and the river. It’s misty this morning, but in the distance I can see where we were before our frantic flight along tram tracks — Old Town Square, the spires of the church stubborn against grey.</p>
<p>
  <em> We’ve come so far. </em>
</p>
<p>The tram brought us across the river, hands held up to shield from the blear of sun against glass. Then we were walking a winding path ever upwards, heading for a metal structure that grew up between branches.</p>
<p>I suppose there are many cities where I could do this. Purchase a ticket, climb a tower, take in the view. But this feels special for a reason I can’t quite capture. (Perhaps it’s the Christmas sentimentality, finally warping my brain.) (Gareth de Gates, making one last dash for my remaining will to live.) Everywhere I look, there’s tinsel or another festive frippery — there’s no escaping it, try as I might.</p>
<p>Snow asks if I wish to return to earth, and I don’t. Not yet. He’s warm — I can feel heat, spiralling off him as we stand here. But I say yes because he might be tiring of my company, and my phone’s burning a hole in my pocket. I glance down at the screen as we descend, Snow five steps ahead of me (I count them) — my charming correspondent is, of course, Gareth. As furious and tactless as ever.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><b>Gareth d’Awful Directing:</b> <em> Planning on working today?? Reshoots scene 54. </em></p>
<p><b>Gareth d’Awful Directing: </b> <em> If u think this gets u out of Dragon Dream Part 12, ur wrong. </em></p>
<p><b>Gareth d’Awful Directing: </b> <em> Plz reply to let me know u are alive. Can’t afford a foreign funeral. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Scene fifty-four. Dragon Dream Part 12. Does this blasted film have <em> any </em> redeeming features? There are text messages from Wellbelove, enquiring as to whether I’m experiencing some sort of mid-film meltdown. (I’m not sure I’m not.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p><b>Aga (Basil Don’t You Dare):</b> <em> Everything alright, BP? That’s two set storm-offs in 24 hrs. Do you require an intervention? </em></p>
<p><b>Aga (Basil Don’t You Dare): </b> <em> Don’t think I didn’t notice Mr. Capital One following you from the square. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I indulge in a spot of inward despair. That’s all I need — a scandal to alight the gossip blogs for all of five seconds. Not that anyone even <em> knows </em> this film is in production — I posted a photograph of the castle on Instagram last week, and nobody asked what I was doing here. Wellbelove hasn’t posted anything to her own account in the past five years, so if Gareth was hoping we’d be heartily promoting his little project, he’s been sorely disappointed. Perhaps that’s why he gave up on the plot making any sense.</p>
<p>Still, for all my negativity, I <em> do </em> feel refreshed. It’s the second time in two days that Snow has allowed me to escape, if only for a moment, and I’m not ready for it to end. For us to go our separate ways once more — him to his easel, me to face the harshness of camera lights.</p>
<p>I ought to make amends for last night. He was only trying to help. (I think.) (He’s rather difficult to read. Like a book with the glossary ripped out.) (Also...I ruined his jeans. He’s wearing a different pair today: snug at the waist, arguably fewer paint splatters.)</p>
<p>At the bottom of the steps, we exit through a gift shop and stand in brisk winter air, puffing mist at each other. He’s wearing the same stripy jumper as last night, and on anyone else it would look like a costume, props to give the impression of a casual artist about town. But on Simon it’s so very <em> him. </em></p>
<p>He starts along the path, and I follow. Like he followed this morning, like he followed last night.</p>
<p>And as the path forks, it’s me who reaches out for <em> him. </em></p>
<p>“Snow,” I begin, then think better of it. (Perhaps I should <em> try </em> to be personable.) “<em>Simon. </em>Would you like to get a drink? Before we leave. Tea, I mean. Or coffee.”</p>
<p>
  <em> It’s eleven o’ clock in the morning, I’m hungover on something far more damning than the wine we shared, and I don’t want to go back to work. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Please. Can we fill this blank page with something other than failure? </em>
</p>
<p>I entrust the pathetic expression on my face to say what my mouth will not.</p>
<p>There’s no need to fear the response — he’s grinning and leading the way before my feet know what to do with themselves, assuring me there’s a great café at the bottom of the hill, and am I in the mood for morning cake?</p>
<p>“Morning cake?” I ask, wondering if it’s a speciality of Prague, or of him.</p>
<p>He looks severely disappointed. “If you don’t start your Sundays with cake, Baz, I don’t know what you’re doing with your life. Are you ready to have your mind blown by bábovka?”</p>
<p>I have no idea what that is, but I think I am.</p>
<p>
  <em> Simon Snow, walk ahead so I can follow. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>SIMON</b>
</p>
<p>We’re sitting outside at a table with a glass top, drinking coffee and watching water spin through one of those wooden wheel things. I was never a big coffee drinker before I moved here, but Prague coffee is good, if you go to the right place. I order a cup and Baz gets one with milk and sugar.</p>
<p>It’s weird, remembering last night. We sat at the bar in the snow, and now we’re here.</p>
<p>“I won’t spill it on you,” he says, and I <em> think </em> that’s a smile. (A shy one.) (I like it.)</p>
<p>“If you do, I’m out of spare jeans,” I reply. (Fuck. He probably <em> doesn’t </em> want to think about my trousers.)</p>
<p>I want to ask what he thought of Petřín, and maybe say sorry for being pushy yesterday, but before I can get a word in he’s asking a question of his own.</p>
<p>“What you said at the market, about endings. Is that really how you view life?”</p>
<p>I shrug, which isn’t an answer. But I’ve never been that great with words.</p>
<p>“It’s how I viewed mine. I just...wasn’t going anywhere. And I wasn’t happy. So I changed things.” Another shrug. (Is it getting annoying? With a face like Baz’s, it’s hard to tell. Maybe everything about me is pissing him off.) (But he’s <em> here. </em>He’s not running away.) “There’s a lot less pressure now.”</p>
<p>His lips press into a line. He does that a lot. Like he’s trying to squash down what he’s thinking before he can say it. I know he’s used to being given lines, but that doesn’t mean he can’t think.</p>
<p>I <em> am </em> surprised to be sitting here, drinking coffee on a terrace with an actor off the telly.</p>
<p>But I’m not about to go running to the papers to sell his story, captions pieced together from his misery.</p>
<p>Maybe he needs to ease into it, into whatever’s eating away at him.</p>
<p>Maybe I can find a way through.</p>
<p>“The film,” I say, biting into my slice of bábovka. (Light and fluffy, chocolate and vanilla dusted with icing sugar. My coffee’s not sweet but everything else is.) “Last night you said you’d given the director suggestions. About the film.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Baz says with a sneer. He takes a bite of cake, and there’s sugar on the end of his nose. (Would he murder me if I reached out and brushed it off?) “My thoughts were <em> not </em> welcome. Gareth de Gates is a man of singular vision, generally as a result of the single brain cell used to craft it.”</p>
<p>I’m not familiar with this Gareth bloke. (Not that I know much about films.) (Sometimes I can’t sit through them. I have to get up halfway through and wander around, make sure the rest of the world’s still where I left it.) The director looked like a proper berk this morning in his football shirt, pretending he wasn’t freezing his arse off like the rest of us. Prague in December’s no laughing matter, mate — put a fucking coat on! (I know I’m only wearing a jumper today, but still. At least it’s got <em> sleeves.</em>)</p>
<p>“What were your ideas?”</p>
<p>He looks up from his cup and I swear he’s surprised.</p>
<p>“You’d really like to know?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” I say, leaning forward in my chair, hands pressed under my legs to keep warm. I accidentally knock his foot, and he jerks back before leaning in. “Anything’s got to be better than that mess of a story you mentioned last night. I mean,<em> unicorns?” </em></p>
<p>“An entire herd of them, apparently. I don’t know where he imagines he’ll find the budget.” He smiles then, and it <em> is </em> a real one this time. Not the fake smile from earlier, sitting on the bench with the blonde girl. I’m not a massively smiley person, so I get what it means to fake it.</p>
<p>But it’s nice to see the real thing. It looks good on him. He doesn’t look like someone I’d avoid in the street.</p>
<p>“Well, in all honesty, the first scene is fine. Trite and predictable, yes — but a decent enough opening.” He shifts the napkins on the table, reaching inside his coat for a pen. He sketches out a rough map of Prague. (If you ask me, he knows it better than he thinks.) “It’s in scene two that the real problems begin…”</p>
<p>I watch the grey of his eyes turn into something less like rain, and more like silver.</p>
<p>My foot brushes his again and this time, he doesn’t move away.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>BAZ</b>
</p>
<p>How many hours have we lost here, at this café by the water? Ordering coffee after coffee so that the staff don’t turf us out, buzzing with an energy I can’t entirely pass off on cake and caffeine. (Both of which are far better than expected.) (I am a willing bábovka convert.)</p>
<p>Simon listens raptly as I lay out my plans to transform <em> The Amazing Christmas Adventure in Prague </em> into something less than terminally awful. <em> The Upsettingly Bad Christmas Film Except Now It’s Slightly Better Than Before. </em> It’s apparent I’ve spent far too much time developing said plan — there’s a novel’s worth of material between us, spewing forth across the table. I slip in a few more recent developments that came to me overnight — Verity and Coriolanus’s late-night stroll through a familiar Christmas market. Perhaps a romantic view, enjoyed from the top of a lookout tower...</p>
<p>Once I’ve finished emptying my head, I wait for Snow to tell me it’s nonsense. That these are words best left unsaid.</p>
<p>Instead, he leans in closer than before — his foot’s pressing against my calf, and I’m oddly thrilled about it — and says, “Baz, have you ever thought about writing a screenplay? This is good stuff.”</p>
<p>“Of course not,” I splutter, nearly knocking over the dregs of my fourth coffee. (Between the market and this café, I’m a jittery mess. “I’m an actor, Snow. I’m not paid to<em> think.” </em></p>
<p>But I <em> am </em> thinking.</p>
<p>And it’s all his fault.</p>
<p>
  <em> [Insert blame here.] </em>
</p>
<p>(Surely anyone could write a better screenplay than Gareth?)</p>
<p>“You’re good at this — sorting out the story. You’ve got the characters where they need to be, and without all that other stuff your director’s putting in...pixie clan warfare, the vampire uprising, you know. All the extra drama that comes from nowhere.”</p>
<p>
  <em> Drama sells, Snow. Haven’t you sat through a YouTube soap opera slap compilation video? </em>
</p>
<p>Still, he’s being kind. Tolerant of both me and my tangents. It’s a shame, almost, when my phone bursts into life for the hundredth time, and I can no longer find an excuse to ignore it.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” I say, crumpling the napkins. They’ll be thrown away with the rest of my ambition; it’s no major loss. “I ought to return to the set. Gareth de Gates is ready to have tiny dictator kittens, it seems.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yeah,” Snow says, pushing back from the table with a jolt. He rubs his neck and stares at me and I <em> have </em> to look away. I have to. “The tram stop’s not far. I’ll get you back across the river.”</p>
<p>(If I don’t look away, I’ll burn.)</p>
<p>We don’t say anything as we leave the café, though I don’t suppose we need to. He hangs back for a moment; as I linger on the path, I see the table has already been cleared.</p>
<p>He leads me back to the tram stop, and we wait with our heads down and hands in pockets.</p>
<p>“Snow,” I begin, though I don’t know what else to say.</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>He’s hopeful. I still can’t look.</p>
<p>
  <em> I don’t know what I’m afraid of. Does he know? Could he chase it away for me? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Before I chase myself? </em>
</p>
<p>“I can’t write a film. I can barely act in one.” A tram approaches — one of the newer model trains, clicking quietly over tracks set into the road. <em> Lines, </em> I think. <em> Though these ones can’t get lost. </em></p>
<p>“You could try. Give it a go.”</p>
<p>Snow pulls out his travel pass, and I retrieve the return ticket he bought for me earlier.</p>
<p>“Best not to contemplate these things.”</p>
<p>“What things?” he asks, and he’s almost annoyed with me. “Why don’t you think about —”</p>
<p>“Enough,” I say firmly, stepping through the doors. I turn, hoping he’ll follow, but he doesn’t. Not this time.</p>
<p>The tram doors slide shut on Simon Snow and I leave him there, at the bottom of Petřín hill. There’s something in his hand, and for a moment I think it’s the paintings — or a blank page, like snow on a red rooftop. Like a canvas propped on an easel, awaiting a paintbrush.</p>
<p>But when I look again, I realise it’s a napkin covered in pencil marks.</p>
<p>The tram pulls away. He’s still looking at me — I move through the train, seeking a seat.</p>
<p>And as I leave him behind for the umpteenth time, I refuse to think of endings <em> or </em> beginnings.</p>
<p>Instead I think about the middle, and how I’m trapped in it. Treading water and trying not to drown.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. On the bridge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <b>BAZ</b>
</p><p>The rest of the day, and much of the next, is lost to re-shoots. Wellbelove grows increasingly unimpressed with Gareth’s lacklustre direction, whilst assistants wander off at will to do a bit of souvenir shopping. I stand staring into space, losing increasingly vital pieces of myself in the landscape.</p><p>My mind drifts back to Snow and our conversation at the café with an increasing sense of urgency. <em> Damn you and your morning cake. Chocolate, vanilla, torture. Flavour I could hardly bear. </em></p><p>Against all previously acknowledged sensibilities, I took my thoughts for a script rehash to Gareth this morning. I’d left the majority of the ideas on my scrunched up napkin, no doubt long since lost to the depths of Snow’s pockets, but the main gist remained.</p><p>It was a conversation we’d had before, and he was determined not to allow this particular ending a whiff of change.</p><p>Gareth sat in his director’s chair, pastry in one hand and ego in the other, occasionally interrupting to pass an instruction or request to an assistant. I cast my eyes in an unfortunate downward direction to find a disconcerting eyeball staring up at me, his most disturbing belt buckle yet. He watched me speak with something that might have been interest on another’s face, though on him it looked more like disparagement.</p><p>When I was finished, he thanked me for my close reading of the script — he said it with a straight face, so I can only assume he was being sincere — and then politely refused to make any changes.</p><p>A few days ago I would’ve been furious. Raging, disillusioned, done.</p><p>But today, I realise that it’s fine. It’s as it should be.</p><p>Gareth has a vision for the film he’s making, and my job is to bring it to life. (In a stilted, stumbling way, perhaps, but <em> alive </em> it will most certainly be.) Perhaps change is not what I needed to find in this particular job, that I can complete and disregard; perhaps <em> wanting </em>change was the step to be taken. The lesson, of all things, to find this week.</p><p>I roll my eyes at myself. (One might think such a thing impossible, but I assure you, it’s not.)</p><p>Whatever the precise nature of my personal revelation, it has a notable effect on my acting. I veer off-script at will, delighting Agatha with unscripted responses — twisting lines into what feels right, instead of hoping to find solace on the page.</p><p>It’s better — I know it, my co-star knows it, and I suspect the director knows it, too. <em> Our mate Gazza </em> (so says the t-shirt he’s wearing today) only interrupts filming once, and that’s because he’s noticed a particularly striking angle from which to capture the morning sunlight, streaking across our faces.</p><p>It’s <em> most </em> artistic, the entire affair. (No one is more surprised than me.)</p><p>There’s romance, and though it be of the arranged, prepaid variety, it’s almost real.</p><p>There’s something those on set with me don’t know — that I am not for one moment my own character. I don’t see anything before me but blue eyes, a rakish smile and a paintbrush. (I also briefly envision the vicious snarl of the old woman on the tram yesterday, who smacked me with her walking stick and called me something unsavoury in Czech, as Snow stared at me forlornly from the pavement.)</p><p>Wellbelove and I have developed a surprising surge of rapport overnight. She squints at me suspiciously between takes, determined to puzzle me out.</p><p>“What were you up to last night, Basilton? Did it involve scandalous overdue charges?”</p><p>“Certainly not,” I answer honestly. (After filming ended in the afternoon, I went straight to my hotel room and wore channels into the carpet, pacing off the surplus coffee.) (Tempted as I was to venture down to Old Town Square and enquire after a certain painter, I resisted. I’m no doubt the last person he’d want to see, after the way I dismissed him on the hillside.)</p><p>“I don’t believe you,” she says beneath her breath. Wellbelove has the sparkling talent of making everything she utters sound like a death threat. “Something’s changed.”</p><p>“How so?”</p><p>She waits patiently for an assistant to finish reapplying her blush before answering.</p><p>“You smiled earlier and it didn’t look pained. You haven’t complained once about our flight cancellation.”</p><p>“I <em> had </em> to smile. Despite the carnival of nonsense parading through this film, Coriolanus is somehow <em> thrilled </em> to meet Verity.” I hesitate. “And it’s fine about the flight, really. I was thinking of staying here for a few days, anyway. See the sights.”</p><p>Her eyes narrow. I can only imagine what sights she’s conjuring. “Becoming a tourist, are we? Something <em> is </em> different. Are you sure it wasn’t that man from yesterday? The one who looked like he’d gone cartwheeling through B&amp;Q. Are you indulging in a little romantic dalliance, whilst we’re here?”</p><p>I experience a sharp pain at the thought of Simon. (The man <em> does </em> need a new pair of jeans.)</p><p>“No,” I say evenly, chancing the lie. “It’s not him. There’s no romance.”</p><p>
  <em> But you’re right. In a way, it’s different. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Everything’s changing today. </em>
</p><p>I can’t tell Wellbelove as such without sounding like every awful Christmas cliché come to life, so instead I relax into a shaky air of mystery, and hope she tires of the intrigue before long. I know she’ll be delighted to finish filming and return to the UK — and at this rate, with single-take scenes flying by as we approach the final third of the film, I dare say she’ll be ahead of schedule. The flight cancellation will prove to be a boon.</p><p>
  <em> Was this always in me? What might be enthusiasm, even if only to finish. </em>
</p><p>I think about Snow as the day moves on, scenes built around us and then dismantled. It’s a job — I see that now. Not every moment in life needs to be one of great artistry. (Others, though. Other moments can be art.)</p><p>After this is done, I’ll find something else. Step back from wallowing when the award-winning script of my dreams doesn’t land on my agent’s desk.</p><p>
  <em> Perhaps I could pick up a pen. Find a blank page. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Even if the words amount to nothing, I could try. Make my own way through a story instead of reading another’s aloud. </em>
</p><p>Snow changed his ending by giving up what he knew. The pressure, the expectation — he turned his back on it, and instead of meeting with a wall he found another path. Another road to walk along. Perhaps I needn’t do something as drastic<em> just </em>yet, but…</p><p>...perhaps I could linger.</p><p>
  <em> Yes. See what else might change in Prague. </em>
</p><p>Perhaps I could venture off the beaten path, for once in my life.</p><p>We spend a full day on set — shooting takes us up by the castle, and we lose precious hours as the guards usher tourists away from our cordoned-off area. (Don’t they realise Wellbelove needs silence in order to be sufficiently wistful?)</p><p>By the time we’re dismissed, with the promise of a rare evening off calling to us, the sun is gone and out of mind, a touch of stardust stealing across an inked sky.</p><p>Night is almost here. My breath mists before me, hands pink where I’ve rubbed them together. Wellbelove calls to me, huddled against a few of the extras.</p><p>“Basilton, we’re taking a taxi back to the hotel — are you coming?”</p><p>I should. It would be best to resist the ever-present need to make things worse. (Also, I’m yet to visit a shoe shop and invest in anything suitable for traversing the city alone.)</p><p>But Simon...I hate how we left things yesterday. (Again. How am I so astoundingly bad at this?) (Whatever <em> this </em> is.) I pushed him away when I rather think I should have pulled him close. <em> I should have </em>—</p><p>Damned be to the consequences, such as they are. Before I can think twice about it I’m storming off set for the third time in as many days, elbows at the ready as I approach time-worn steps leading down from the castle. In many ways, it’s a repeat of yesterday — Gareth shouts but I don’t hear. Wellbelove grins and tells me to pick up the pace.</p><p>“Buy me a souvenir, Baz! Does your artist paint the river?”</p><p><em> He does, </em> I think. <em> More than anything else. </em></p><p>He likely won’t even <em> be </em> there. It’s Monday, and he doesn’t sit at his easel during the week — he’s busy with his other job. Conversing with business people.</p><p>Also, it’s getting late, and I imagine the market has to close at some point. It’ll go so far into the night, then tourists will wander away for pastures other, and the stall workers will retire. No, I’ll get there to find him long-gone — perhaps never there in the first place.</p><p>But I let myself hope. I have to.</p><p>
  <em> Simon, it’s another cliché. After their second meeting, Thistle searches high and low for Verity. Where does he find her? Where might you be? </em>
</p><p>My head’s a storm of apology, of knowing that Snow was right. (I get a feeling he’ll get a kick out of hearing so.) (Pride be damned, I’m seeing it through.)</p><p>Hope carries me across Charles Bridge, still busy with admirers, the street artists and vendors long since closed up and departed. That pricks at my hope somewhat, these signs that he might be gone. The statues still loom over stones and the river below, though I find in their faces no comfort.</p><p><em> We’ve bumped into each other by chance twice now. Perhaps the third time’s just around the next </em>—</p><p>Oh, no. It’s most definitely <em> not </em> around the next corner.</p><p>I walk straight into a group of young men (<em>mad lads</em>, I’m sure Snow would say), arm in arm and wobbling their way across uneven ground. My efforts to avoid them see me almost cut down by a rogue Segway, weaving violent patterns between tourists.</p><p>“Mate! <em> Mate! </em>” one of the young men screeches at me, swerving with the grace of a broken-down Morris Minor. “Mind how you go!”</p><p>I scowl, but they’re beyond the point of body language. I’m sure Prague holds many charms for stag parties and weekend escapes — wasn’t that what Snow said brought him here, that first time? Before he set his heart upon change.</p><p>But I’ve seen more of it now. Still only pieces and shimmering shards, perhaps, but I’ve some idea of what this city might offer me, if I let it. </p><p>If I let him in.</p><p>I stride forth with purpose, hood pulled as far over my face as the fabric will allow, eyes on the toes of my traitorous shoes as I crush fresh snowfall beneath my feet.</p><p>Of <em> course </em> it’s going to snow. Did I expect clear skies?</p><p>
  <em> This is a Christmas film, and it’s time for the finale. </em>
</p><p>Between Snow and the dusting of white over rooftops, I don’t know which is more of a spectacle.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>SIMON</b>
</p><p>It’s cold tonight. Arctic, even. (Probably not, but it feels like it. If I’ve got ten toes and two bollocks left after this, I’ll be surprised.)</p><p>I popped to the market earlier, even though Jan knows I don’t paint during the week. I checked in to find he’d sold all of my watercolours — the last batch were mostly of the river, and a few of St. Vitus Cathedral — and there was a pile of money waiting for me.</p><p>Never thought it could be like this. I was just a berk at an easel, short one beret.</p><p>The argument yesterday (<em>was </em> it an argument?) with Baz has been on my mind. It was hard to concentrate during work earlier. (I <em> did </em> get into a long-winded conversation about bábovka with my finance bloke. I came away with three recipes and he <em> probably </em> didn’t learn anything useful.)</p><p>I hope he’s alright.</p><p>(Baz, I mean. Not my student. Jakub’s sound.)</p><p>I’m not sure where he was filming today; he never said. There are only so many places the film crews go — I reckon that prat of a director looked up a Prague Top Ten Tourist Destinations list and went from there.</p><p>So far, they’ve been sticking to the main sights. No wandering off to see the Basilica at Vyšehrad, no Žižkov television tower, no trek up to the monastery...Baz would really like that. I wonder if he’ll have time to go, before his flight home? There’s a library there with a shit load of old books. (Probably not a technical term.)</p><p>It’s late. I bet he’s not thinking about any of that stuff. Sightseeing...he came here to work, didn’t he? Like I did. Except his job’s got an expiry date, an end he knew in advance.</p><p>My flat’s in Malá Strana, west of the river — on the sloping streets leading past the castle. I could take the metro home or catch a tram, but walking across Charles Bridge at night is alright, really. There are nowhere near as many people about, and the river always looks pretty, lit with the castle’s reflection. There are still people up there by the walls — I can see their silhouettes, specks in the night.</p><p>Maybe one day I’ll get tired of living here. I’ll wake up one morning and think, <em> I want to go somewhere else. </em></p><p>But not tonight.</p><p>I look back as I cross, wondering if there’ll be anywhere open where I can buy tea bags. (I’m out. My flatmates are out. It’s a disaster.) I live in a tiny flat above a souvenir shop and it’s great. Quiet. The pavement’s steep and gets a bit icy in winter, but if that’s the hardest part of the day, you know you’re not doing badly. (Baz would struggle, walking up my street. I’d need to hold his hand.) (Would he let me?)</p><p>My breath mists in front of me. I look back once more, towards the old town. Stuffing my hands deep in my pockets to keep out the cold.</p><p>Prague’s beautiful in December. A dream I didn’t think could be true.</p><p>Maybe I should stand here on the bridge and wait. Just one more minute.</p><p>Just to see.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>BAZ</b>
</p><p>The market’s close to deserted. A few stallholders battle on, though the crowds are thinner than I’ve seen them thus far, and workers sweep wearily at snow-dusted stone. If Snow were ever here, he will have moved on long ago. The bars around the square’s edges are dealing a sombre trade — I spend a moment staring longingly at the table we occupied the other night, drinking wine and watching the world pass by.</p><p>
  <em> Pull yourself together, Basil. </em>
</p><p>Snow’s surely home in the warm, wherever that might be. (I never asked. All that time spent complaining about my own life, and I hardly showed a sliver of curiosity.) (It’s <em> exhausting </em> being this fascinating.)</p><p>I buy a cup of hot wine to warm my hands, and also to relive our conversation. (Though not the Thistly bits. The battle with gravity and hot liquids.) Then I walk between stalls to stare up at the Astronomical Clock. There’s a group of youths in front of it, taking photos and laughing, and I only linger long enough to take in its myriad adornments, the skeletons and metals shining blue and gold in brighter light.</p><p>For a moment I stand on ground older than I can fathom, rotating in place, looking up at lights and the painstakingly decorated tree, towering above the scene. (It’s one I could not cry cut over.)</p><p>Then I go back the way I came, towards Charles Bridge. There’s no reason for me to cross the river again tonight — as it stands, I’m close enough to the hotel to be warm again in fifteen minutes. It would be best to sleep off the remainder of today before it begins again tomorrow.</p><p>But there’s a painting folded into the pocket of my coat, and I know what’s on it. The last of the three I was carrying around with me, on the day I met Snow — I took it from the set again earlier, simpering fool that I am. <em> Old Town Square, Petřín Lookout Tower, and… </em></p><p>Charles Bridge.</p><p>Yes, it’s only right. Where I stood when the wonder first took me.</p><p>Perhaps the night <em> should </em>end there, lost as I am in the brush strokes.</p><p>It was damaged by a flood, the old bridge of before. They built this one in its place.</p><p>Stronger. Bridging the gap between old and new.</p><p>A smear of ink, connecting two ideas. The river was a blank page once, as well.</p><p>My phone goes off. (Good, because that was all getting rather abstract, even by my standards.) It’s Gareth, reminding me to be at the castle tomorrow morning, bright and early. A car will come to ensure Wellbelove and I don’t get any funny ideas about slinking away. I switch off my phone, leaving him read and neglected.</p><p>The painting is far more interesting. This one might be my favourite — arches I pause to count, towers bathed in orange light. He painted it at night, and I’d say that was the right choice. Its age and grandeur, captured between each amber shadow, each golden highlight.</p><p>I hold the painting in front of me as I weave through a sea of strangers; it’s as if I’m being pulled back to the bridge. Where it began, and where the story in my mind meets an end.</p><p>
  <em> I’m glad I met you, Simon snow. Now, isn’t that a thought fit for the world’s worst Christmas film? </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>SIMON</b>
</p><p>Somebody walks past in a black coat with the collar pulled up, a beanie hat covering their ears. I imagine that their hair’s black, not brown, and that they’re wearing fancy, stupid shoes they’re bound to slip over in, and…</p><p>...it’s not Baz. I <em> know </em> it’s not Baz. He’ll be free of winter by now, warm in his hotel room with cucumber slices on his eyes. (Or whatever actors do to relax at the end of the day.) (His skin’s dead soft-looking. He must moisturise like a demon.)</p><p>But I think I <em> want </em>it to be Baz.</p><p>My heart does that stupid skippety-jump thing to let me know I’m on the right track. (What’s that all about? Maybe the weather’s getting to me.) (<em>Are </em> we trapped in a Christmas film? Like one of those snow globes they sell in the souvenir shops.) (I <em> do </em> feel shaken.)</p><p>Even though he was an arse yesterday, and has been a bit of an arse every time I’ve met him, I still want it to be him. I still want it to be Baz.</p><p>I want to bump into him, cheesy-Christmas-film style, at least once more. <em> The Bloody Brilliant Christmas Bridge Rendezvous. </em>(Don’t know about you, but I’d watch the fuck out of that film.) (Especially if it had Hugh Grant in it.)</p><p>I’m stuck on the thought of it, turning to watch the river from between two statues (I don’t know their names — Dav and Neil, for all I care), when I collide with someone. Their shoes slide on deceptive ice, because they’re not the right sort for these treacherous cobbles, and the world slides from under them.</p><p>Before I can do anything to help, a hand tightens around my arm, and then we’re both going down together. I land in a heap of —</p><p>— <em> Baz! </em></p><p>Yes, that’s right. I land in a heap of Baz. Our legs are tangled and his face is in my —</p><p>(To be honest, there’s probably someone sitting at home with the latest issue of Celebz Objectified, wishing they were me.)</p><p>“Sorry,” I say automatically, even though it’s <em> his </em> fault he’s still wearing fucking silly shoes and wasn’t looking where he was going.</p><p>“Of course you are, it’s your default state,” he mutters, dusting powdery snow off the backs of his legs. (I’d help, but I don’t know well that’d go.) (His legs are so long, it’d take me all year.) When he looks up again, he softens. “And what I mean by that is...I’m sorry, too. I admit you were right about my shoes.”</p><p>I grin, and he manages this pained expression that might be his own special version of a smile. (Or maybe he’s broken something? Hard to say.) Then we’re walking towards a stretch of wall between two other statues, so we don’t cause a human traffic jam in the middle of the bridge.</p><p>“Why?” I ask, winded after the fall. I’m hoping he gets the rest of my sentence from the space between us: <em> Why are you here? On Charles Bridge at night, in the cold. Why don’t you have any fucking decent winter gear? </em></p><p>He pulls something from his coat and holds it out over the water. Light shines through the paper, but I recognise it well enough — it’s one of the watercolours I sold to that director. One I did of right here where we’re standing, leaning on old stone.</p><p>“I was hoping to catch you,” he says, not much more than a murmur. I have to step closer to be sure I can hear. “I wanted to apologise.”</p><p>“You just did,” I reply, pointing to the section of the bridge we so recently occupied. Passers-by are giving Baz funny looks — his back’s covered in snow. I pat him down without too much protest. “Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>He rolls his eyes, still looking at the painting instead of at me. “That’s not quite what I’m talking about.”</p><p>I know what he’s talking about. I just like winding him up. Keeping him on his toes.</p><p>“It’s alright,” I say, because I also don’t want him to feel <em> that </em> bad. “It’s all good.”</p><p>“It isn’t. I was unkind yesterday — cruel, in fact. I regret it immensely.”</p><p>Who says things like that? <em> I regret it immensely. </em>Anyone would think he’d pushed me down a flight of stairs, instead of leaving me stranded at a tram stop.</p><p>“It’s fine,” I say again, because I mean it. “The only one upset with you is you.”</p><p>He looks at me thoughtfully, then he’s lost to the river again. I can guess at what he’s feeling — the river’s the whole bloody reason I ended up moving here. The things it told me. What we think is important until it isn’t.</p><p>I get the feeling there’s something else he wants to say, but maybe he doesn’t know how. I know how that goes — how many times have I been told to track the words down and use them? How many times have I failed?</p><p>Shit, it’s hard to think of any to say <em> now</em>. (But I think I’m speechless for a different reason.)</p><p>Baz folds the watercolour into a square and puts it in his pocket. Then he looks at me, with his hair in his face and the wind blowing snow in my eyes, and before he can say anything I hear myself asking, “Seriously, if you’re that sorry, will you let me show you around?”</p><p>He doesn’t answer, but his eyes brighten. He doesn’t try and run away like at the market, so we might be on the right track.</p><p>We might be getting somewhere.</p><p>(I want to <em> get </em> there.)</p><p>“A proper walking tour,” I continue, feeling brave. “None of that tourist centre crap. I haven’t lived here forever — nearly a year? — but long enough to know the streets well. I can take you off the map.”</p><p>That sounds a bit stranger than I’d planned. A bit bolder.</p><p>But this time, Baz doesn’t flinch or shy away.</p><p>“Very well, if that would even the score between us. I promise to try to be better company.”</p><p>I’m grinning again. (It’s hard not to.) (He technically hasn’t promised anything, just promised to <em> try</em>, but still.) (<em>Getting somewhere.</em>)</p><p>“There’s loads to see,” I say. I’ve taken another step closer; will he take one back? (He doesn’t.)</p><p>
  <em> I wish you could see what I do right now. </em>
</p><p>I’m not looking at the river, let’s put it that way.</p><p>I’ve hardly noticed the city at all, these past few days.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>BAZ</b>
</p><p>Snow is standing terribly close. (I don’t mind.)</p><p>He’s offered me a personal walking tour of Prague, and instead of fleeing as before, I hold onto the bridge.</p><p>I take a step to close what space remains between us.</p><p>He accepted my apology, though I’d hardly begun — perhaps there are other ways I can make up for my behaviour? (If he’d want that.)</p><p>He’s looking at me now, and it says something about what’s happening — about what meeting here, like this, in the dark of night might mean — that he’s not besotted with the river, or the lights shining from castle walls above us. There are a thousand beautiful things Simon Snow could be taken by, and instead he’s looking at me.</p><p>
  <em> The city, the city’s the wonder. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Prague in winter, cold in our hands. </em>
</p><p>“When’s this going to happen, then?” he asks, and he sounds a touch nervous. (All things told, he’s holding together better than I am. If he moves any closer I’ll have to fling myself off the bridge to prevent him from seeing how I shake.) “The tour.”</p><p>I watch as a snowflake catches in his lashes — a wipe of a thumb and it’s gone, melted on the back of his hand. (I know they’ll be warm, his hands.) (I <em> shouldn’t </em> know that, but. I do.)</p><p>He’s a furnace, and oh, how I burn.</p><p>“Filming ends next week,” I say quietly. My heart leaps at the thought. “Perhaps a fortnight, if the unicorn scene goes terribly.”</p><p>
  <em> Could I really stay here? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fail to re-book my flight, abandon Wellbelove to the perils of economy class? </em>
</p><p>“And you’re sticking around for a bit?” he asks, rubbing at his ridiculously showy neck. “Because...hang on, I don’t even know where you’re staying right now.”</p><p>I gesture over my shoulder, towards Old Town. “There’s a chain hotel by the Palladium shopping centre. FairlyBestBedz is the regrettable name.”</p><p>“Oh,” he says, nodding vacantly. “Your director’s a dickhead. He could’ve at least put you in the Ibis next door.”</p><p>“Tell me about it.”</p><p>As ice steals over the Vltava, the ice between us breaks.</p><p>Another step, another lingering question in my mind: <em> How close is too close? </em></p><p>(Snow seems determined to test the limits.) (He’s practically standing on my toes, ever determined to close that three-inch gap.)</p><p>“I’m sure I can extend my stay for a week,” I say. <em> Or a fortnight. </em> “The hotel is not exactly crawling with guests.” (Though it <em> is </em> crawling with something else.) (Lump mattresses, ghosts and other assorted ghouls.)</p><p>It’s as if he’s hardly listening — his eyes are glassy like that night in the square, though we can hardly blame the wine this time. His hands reach up to brush snow off my lapels, and before I can let another thought enter my head, he’s reaching up and touching my face.</p><p>Snow. He kisses me, here on Charles Bridge, with the castle above us and history beneath our feet. The moment’s bound to look disgustingly romantic to those passing by.</p><p>(Wellbelove and I haven’t filmed Coriolanus and Verity’s kiss scene yet, but it will be similar to this. With our usual amount of mutual charisma.)</p><p>(Well, perhaps it won’t <em> quite </em> be like this…)</p><p>I wrap my arms around Snow’s neck and lean into it. Into <em> him. </em> I should lift my foot off the ground, really let the picture-perfect film moment take over.</p><p>I kiss him back as if he’s the line I’ve been looking for, the missing scene I’ve walked cold streets seeking alone, until now.</p><p>Until now.</p><p>Between sighs he pulls back long enough to whisper, “I’ve got a flat across the river. And this. I’ve got this, too.”</p><p>He pulls something from the front pocket of his jeans — a crumpled piece of paper. I recognise it immediately — a few brush lines in deepest blue, dry splashes of damp. It’s the page he’d begun working on, shortly before I interrupted him at the market.</p><p>“A blank page,” I whisper. There’s no loss there — only potential.</p><p>There’s something else crumpled beneath it. It’s one of the napkins from yesterday, smudged ideas that were rescued.</p><p>“You kept them,” I murmur. “My thoughts.”</p><p>I can feel him looking at me. “It’s good stuff, Baz. You should write it down." He thinks about it. "Again. In actual sentences.”</p><p>I meet his gaze. “You’re terribly thoughtful, did you know?”</p><p>He’s nodding, and we’re kissing again before I can get<em> too </em>fixated on the abstract.</p><p><em> I will write it, </em> I realise. <em> Make a story of you. </em></p><p>I hold him close, wondering if a kiss can count as an apology. (Though I’m not sorry for this.)</p><p>He presses in closer, my back finding the edge of a statue. Our lips move together, and I believe this is a tale to be told. I could write a script, a four-part fucking documentary about Simon Snow’s kisses.</p><p>It’s something from a film. The sort I’d instinctively boycott, for daring to be so twee in my presence. The cold air stings my cheeks, but Snow’s mouth is so <em> hot</em>, and his hands are winding up over my shoulders, fingers tangling in my hair, and <em> oh — </em></p><p>This is it. Where the road splits and goes in two directions. I hadn’t known this was coming a few days ago, when I knocked over his easel. When I, quite literally, crashed into his life.</p><p>A confluence, a convergence of paths.</p><p>I stand at a juncture and turn towards the way he waits along. It’s a burning within, a pull that I cannot deny.</p><p>My story says there’s a twist waiting just behind the brush strokes, a new story branching off from one I’d convinced myself was over.</p><p>“Baz,” Simon says, “we should get in out of the cold.”</p><p>
  <em> No need to search for a line this time. It’s right here; you’re right here.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Every line lost. Each ending found. </em>
</p><p>“Yes,” I reply. “We should.”</p><p>I take his hand and let him warm me. I know which story is meant to be mine now, and I choose that path.</p><p>We cross the bridge together, the night sky a masterpiece above us.</p><p>And it’s my hope that by morning, I’ll know every line of him by heart.</p>
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